It started subtly. I was brushing my teeth one night and noticed my reflection lagged behind, only by a fraction of a second — like a bad video feed. I blinked; it blinked late. I thought I was overtired. But every night, the delay grew longer.
A week later, I turned away from the mirror to grab my towel — and my reflection didn’t move. It stayed facing me, eyes locked on mine. My heart stopped. Then it smiled — a cold, wrong smile that never reached the eyes.
I screamed and ran, covering the mirror with a blanket. But I could still feel it watching from behind the glass.
Days later, I tried uncovering it again. The reflection was gone. Just an empty bathroom behind the glass. No me.
Now, every reflective surface in my house — windows, metal, even the black of my phone screen — shows that same empty room instead of my face.
And sometimes, if I look long enough, I can see movement in the background. Something walking closer to where my reflection should be.
