The Man in the Reflection

I had lived alone for years, tucked away in a quiet apartment on the tenth floor. It wasn’t loneliness that bothered me; I had grown accustomed to the silence. But lately, something felt... off. It started with small things—a creaking floorboard, the feeling of being watched, a shadow where there shouldn’t be one.

One night, while brushing my teeth, I noticed something peculiar in the bathroom mirror. My reflection smiled back at me—a fraction of a second before I did.

My heart pounded. I blinked rapidly, convinced it was exhaustion playing tricks on me. But then it happened again the next night. And the night after. The delay was subtle but unmistakable.

Determined to prove myself wrong, I set up my phone to record. I stood before the mirror, raised my arm, and waved. When I played back the footage, my blood ran cold.

My reflection didn’t just lag—it moved on its own.

A bead of sweat trickled down my temple. I tried convincing myself it was a glitch, a trick of the light. But as I stared into the mirror, my reflection slowly tilted its head, studying me with a knowing grin.

Then, it raised its hand—and waved first.

I stumbled backward, knocking over the sink’s cup. The reflection didn’t mimic my panic. It simply stood there, smiling. Then, as I reached for the door, it moved. Not like a mirror image, but like a separate being, stepping closer.

And then it whispered my name.

I bolted from the bathroom, slamming the door shut. My breaths came in ragged gasps. But as I backed away, I caught sight of something in the darkened television screen.

My reflection was still watching me.

And it wasn’t smiling anymore.