Mirror’s Edge

It’s always the little things that tell you something’s wrong, isn’t it? A misplaced item, a door left ajar, the faintest feeling that someone has been in your space. I should have noticed sooner. I should have known.

But how could I? I’ve always trusted my reflection.

The first time it happened, I was getting ready for work. I was running late—again—frantically pulling my hair into a messy bun and applying lipstick in the mirror. I glanced down to grab my bag, and when I looked up, my reflection wasn’t moving.

I froze. For a split second, I thought I was imagining it. My reflection just stood there, staring back at me with the same face, same eyes, but no longer following my movements.

Then, it blinked.

I laughed it off, of course. I had to. Lack of sleep and too much stress, I told myself. I’d probably just been distracted and didn’t realize. But the image of my reflection staring back at me lingered, even as I rushed out the door.

The next time, it wasn’t so easy to ignore.

It was a couple of days later, late at night. I’d just gotten out of the shower, steam fogging up the bathroom mirror. I wiped it clean with the towel, and there I was, dripping wet, staring back at myself. But something was off. It took me a moment to realize what it was—my reflection wasn’t quite… in sync. It was subtle, but noticeable. When I moved, there was a tiny delay, like it was lagging behind me.

I leaned closer, inspecting the glass. My reflection did the same, but slower, deliberate. I raised my hand to the surface, watching as the reflection followed, then hesitated, as if deciding whether to touch back. My hand met the cold glass, and I half-expected my reflection to break through, to grab me.

But nothing happened.

I stepped back, shaking my head. “You’re losing it,” I whispered to myself. Maybe I was. Maybe all the long hours at work were finally catching up to me. I’d been feeling exhausted, disoriented, even when I slept. That had to be it. I was just tired.

That’s what I told myself, at least.

But then things started disappearing. Small things at first—my keys, a hairbrush, my phone charger. At first, I thought I was just misplacing them, but I’d find them in strange places, places I knew I hadn’t put them. My keys turned up in the freezer. My hairbrush was in the kitchen drawer, of all places. And my phone charger? It showed up on the windowsill, coiled like a snake, where I never would have left it.

And always, always, the mirror seemed to watch.

I stopped looking directly into it for long stretches. I’d catch glimpses of myself in the reflection and quickly look away. But one night, I couldn’t help it. I had to know if it was all in my head.

I stood in front of the mirror, taking deep breaths, watching myself do the same. For a long time, nothing happened. Just me and my reflection, staring at each other.

Then, it smiled.

It wasn’t a normal smile. Not the kind I would ever make. It was too wide, too forced, like it didn’t quite fit my face. My lips stretched in the glass, pulling back to reveal teeth that weren’t mine. The muscles in my face twitched, but I wasn’t moving. I couldn’t move.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out. My reflection’s smile grew wider, unnatural, and I could see something in its eyes—something that wasn’t me. It was *mocking* me.

I stumbled back, nearly falling to the floor. My reflection remained still, the smile frozen on its face, watching me from the other side of the glass.

The next morning, the mirror was gone. Or rather, it wasn’t gone—I had taken it down. But I didn’t remember doing it. I found it propped against the wall in the corner of my room, facing away. The screws and nails were scattered across the floor like I had taken it apart in the middle of the night.

I don’t sleep much anymore. Not after that.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is that now, it isn’t just the mirror. Every reflection is wrong. Windows, puddles, glass doors—they all betray me. I catch glimpses of myself in storefronts, in car windows, and every time, I see the same thing: a version of me that isn’t quite right. It’s always a second too late, or a smile too wide, or an expression I didn’t make.

I started covering the mirrors in my apartment. Sheets, towels, anything I could find. But I can still feel them watching from beneath the fabric, waiting for me to slip up, waiting for me to look. My reflection is patient. It knows I can’t avoid it forever.

This morning, when I woke up, the mirror was back on the wall. I know I didn’t put it there. I “know” it. But there it was, hanging perfectly, as if it had never been taken down. I stood in front of it, not wanting to look, but I couldn’t help myself.

There I was again, staring back at me. Normal, at first. For a long, agonizing moment, I thought maybe—just maybe—it was over.

Then, my reflection raised its hand.

But I hadn’t moved.

I bolted out of the room, my heart pounding in my chest. I don’t know what it wants. I don’t know what I want. Am I going mad? Or has something else taken my place in that glass world, and I’m just the echo?

I’m scared to find out.

I don’t look in mirrors anymore. I avoid my reflection whenever I can. But sometimes, when I pass by a shiny surface, I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye.

And I swear, it’s not me looking back.