Mirrors Don't Lie (But They Don't Tell the Truth Either)

The first time the mirror blinked, I thought it was fatigue. My own reflection’s eyes snapped shut and open again, just a beat behind mine. A delay, like poor reception on a live broadcast. I laughed it off. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. But deep down, a seed of unease dug into my ribs.

Over the next week, the glass grew bolder. My reflection began to hesitate, to linger in expressions I no longer wore. If I frowned, it smirked faintly. If I smiled, it twisted that smile into something feral, unfamiliar. I would lift my right hand, and the figure in the mirror raised its left—deliberately wrong, no longer a reflection but a parody.

Still, I returned each morning. That’s the cruelty of mirrors: they seduce you with the promise of certainty. What could be more trustworthy than your own face? But trust, I learned, is just another lie polished into silver.

Hairline Fractures

I began noticing inconsistencies outside the bathroom. The hallway mirror, the antique in my grandmother’s frame—each one displayed subtle differences. A shadow clinging too long to my shoulder. A slight warping around the mouth, as though the reflection knew words I hadn’t spoken yet.

One evening, I lingered too long before the bedroom mirror and saw something impossible: a bruise flowering across my collarbone in the reflection, dark and wet with blood beneath the skin. I touched my chest—nothing. Smooth flesh, unmarked. When I glanced back, the bruise was gone, replaced by a smile too calm, too patient.

I should have turned every mirror to the wall. I should have smashed the glass. Instead, I found myself staring longer, desperate to catch the truth. Because if the reflections were wrong, then perhaps they were right about something else. Perhaps they knew what was coming.

The Stranger in the Glass

It was late when the reflection finally spoke. Not aloud—the mirror has no voice—but with lips that moved, syllables forming soundlessly while my own mouth remained still.

We know what you are.

I staggered back, heart hammering, yet I couldn’t look away. The reflection stepped closer to its side of the glass, even though I had not moved. Its eyes gleamed with something hungry, something certain.

“What am I?” I whispered. My voice shook, my breath fogging the surface.

The reflection didn’t answer. Instead, it pressed its palm against the glass. I felt heat on my side—an impossible warmth radiating through the silver backing. And in that heat, I realized: the mirrors had never been showing me myself. They had been showing me them.

Shattered Truths

I smashed the mirror that night. Shards scattered across the floor, each piece catching the light in jagged slivers. But even broken, they didn’t stop. In every fragment, the reflection still moved independently—thousands of tiny versions of me, each smiling, each waiting.

And then, in one shard nearest my foot, the reflection blinked again. Only this time, I did not.

I felt the delay collapse. Felt something heavy slide into place. My lungs stuttered, my heartbeat faltered, and when I lifted my head, the reflection in all the shards lifted first, as if leading the dance. It leaned forward, lips curling into a grin that was now mine, whether I wanted it or not.

I don’t know how long I have left. My body is becoming a puppet, strings pulled by silver hands. Sometimes, when I speak, the words feel borrowed, too rehearsed. Sometimes, when I sleep, I dream of living inside the glass, pounding on the inside of a window no one can see.

If you ever find your reflection hesitating—just once—look away. Do not linger. Do not give it time to recognize you. Because once it knows you’re watching, it will never stop watching back.

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