It began subtly.
At first, my reflection lagged.
Just a heartbeat.
Barely noticeable.
I'd blink, and she — the version of me behind the glass — would blink a fraction too late.
I laughed it off.
Sleep-deprivation. Stress. Algorithms in my brain misfiring.
Then came the smirk.
I looked in the mirror one morning, brushing my teeth like always…
and she smirked.
I didn't.
Every day after that, she grew bolder.
One morning, she didn't copy my movements at all.
Just stared.
Tilted her head slowly, like trying to understand me.
Like I was the odd one.
And then she started showing up… outside the mirror.
The subway window.
The black screen of my phone.
The back of a spoon.
A puddle on the sidewalk.
Same face.
Same eyes.
But with something off —
a stillness.
A patience I've never had.
And every time I saw her, I felt a little colder.
Like she'd taken something from me — a twitch, a blink, a sigh — and kept it.
I stopped looking into reflective surfaces.
Covered the mirrors.
Avoided my own screen.
But still… I'd see her.
Watching.
Waiting.
I started to wonder:
Which one of us was real?
Maybe I'm the echo.
Maybe she's the one who gets out.
Then last night, I cracked.
I ripped down the bathroom mirror and screamed:
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"
She smiled.
Not mirrored.
Not copied.
Genuine.
And she said:
"I'm the part of you that watches.
Now it's your turn."
The mirror shattered.
But the reflection stayed.
She stepped through.
I didn't run.
I just felt… empty.
Like something unhooked from me and reattached to her.
She walked out.
Wearing my clothes.
My breath.
My memories.
Now, I live behind the glass.
And I watch her live my life better than I ever could.
She smiles more.
Answers texts.
Makes friends.
And sometimes, just before she falls asleep,
she looks into her phone screen…
and mouths the words:
"Don't worry.
You'll get your turn again.
Eventually."