Sof woke with his body slick in cold sweat, breath shallow as he crawled fully into his familiar space. The door behind him creaked against the aged wooden floor as it closed, the sound too loud in the quiet house.
He used the table to pull himself upright, palms pressing into the worn surface to steady his weight. His knees trembled beneath him. He lifted his head and looked at the clock mounted high on the wall.
7:34.
Bedtime was at eight, but his body refused the idea. Anxiety pinned him in place, as if unseen hands kept him grounded where he stood.
A dull sting pulsed at the side of his head. He reached up instinctively. His fingers came away wet. Red bloomed against his skin as blood finally slipped free, slow and warm, likely from when he collapsed onto the pavement at the doorstep.
He sank into the chair by the table, strength abandoning him. Cooking felt impossible. Even standing felt negotiable. His routine had fractured around something he couldn't name.
Sleep tugged at him, heavy and insistent, but his heart refused to slow. Each beat echoed too loud in his chest. His head throbbed, pain layered with the absurdity of it all. It was laughable, almost, that he had never questioned this before. The signs had always been there.
Time slipped past unnoticed as he sank inward, memories tangling together. Food in the fridge shifted from where he left it. Keychains from games he had never played hooked to his keys. Faces he recognized without knowing how or why.
8:12.
He pushed himself up and crossed the room slowly, feet dragging as he approached the full-body mirror leaning against the wall. It reflected him in full. Sweat clung to his skin. Blood streaked down one side of his face, dark against the caramel fabric of his bear hoodie, the color deepened almost to velvet.
He stared.
Too long.
The reflection began to feel wrong, edges blurring not in glass but in his mind. His fingers dug into the mirror's frame, nails biting into wood as if grounding himself might force the unease away.
Something moved.
His fist slammed into the wall beside the mirror.
The impact shocked him still.
He hadn't decided to move. He hadn't chosen to strike. The hole in the wall stared back at him, dust settling as his arm hung uselessly at his side.
Confusion flooded him.
Then he heard it.
A sound. Close. Startled.
"Huh?"
There was no one else in the house. Yet the voice rang clearly, too near, as if spoken directly into his skull. He turned, frantic, scanning the room. Left. Right. Behind the table. Even beneath it, his legs barely holding him upright.
"Who are you?"
The voice again. Louder. Closer.
It didn't sound like a stranger.
His hand flew to his mouth as his knees hit the floor. Breath shattered in his chest as he twisted back toward the mirror.
There, reflected low and wrong, was a man kneeling near the table.
Someone familiar.
Someone he did not know.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"
His hand moved again, sharp and sudden. Pain exploded across his jaw. His ears rang as tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. Blood filled his mouth as he stared back at the mirror in pure, burning hatred.
The one staring back was not him.
Despite the curls. Despite the shared face.
It wasn't him.
He could see traces of himself in it, fragments that matched too closely, but one of them was wrong. One of them did not belong.
The man in the mirror looked terrified. Confused. Pathetic.
They shared the same wide eyes. The same expression. The same fear.
The same body.
But they were not the same being.