You ever feel like your reflection's just a little... too eager?
Like, maybe you're brushing your teeth. You lean forward to spit. And just for a millisecond, you're sure the version of you in the mirror hesitated.
Nothing dramatic. Not a jumpscare. Just that weird delay, like it was waiting to see what you'd do.
I've had that feeling for years.
Most people brush it off. "We're just overthinking. Our brains playing tricks on us. Lighting, lag, eye fatigue, blah blah blah." People are good at lying to themselves. It's a survival trait.
Me? I stopped lying a long time ago.
There's something wrong with reflections.
And this morning, I felt it more than ever.
---
The house was quiet when I got up.
Too quiet. Even for me.
No floorboard creaks. No wind slapping against the windows. Not even the neighbor's annoying rooster that always crowed three hours too early like it was trying to win a prize.
I ignored the pit in my stomach and did my usual no-mirror routine: splash water on my face using the bathroom tap, stare vaguely into the wall tiles, brush teeth with my head tilted slightly downward so I wouldn't have to look into the glass above the sink.
But… I looked.
Just for a second.
I don't even know why.
There I was. Same tired eyes. Same uneven jaw. Same black hoodie with toothpaste on the sleeve. Same old me, right?
Except…
It blinked before I did.
I stood there.
Frozen. Toothbrush halfway to my mouth.
I blinked again, deliberately. Slow.
My reflection didn't move.
Then it tilted its head, just a little.
Just enough to smile.
Just enough to let me know.
I see you.
I dropped the toothbrush.
Didn't even rinse.
Grabbed my bag and left the house without breakfast or socks. My chest felt tight, like something was crawling behind my ribs trying to get out.
---
The walk to school was normal. Or it tried to be.
It was cloudy—sky the color of cold steel. No wind. No birds. The air smelled like static and something almost metallic.
I kept my head down the whole time. I knew better than to glance into car windows or puddles. I wasn't in the mood for surprises.
At school, the usual chaos was in full swing: students loitering in doorways, a freshman getting chewed out for climbing the flagpole, music blaring from someone's speaker. It felt too loud. Too normal.
Arlen was already waiting inside, perched backward on my chair like a gremlin with social skills.
He grinned when he saw me.
"Kael, my shadowy prince of brooding," he said. "You look like death. New skincare routine?"
"Sleep deprivation and paranoia," I said, sliding into my seat. "I'm glowing."
He raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"
"No. But thanks for noticing."
He laughed like I'd told a joke.
I tried to act normal through first and second period. Took notes. Answered one question wrong. Got a weird look from a teacher who probably thought I was high. Arlen doodled a flaming goat on the side of his textbook and tried to pass it off as "modern symbolism."
It wasn't until third period that things went sideways.
It started with Ava—quiet girl, always wears gloves, sits two seats to my left.
She gasped.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a small, sharp inhale.
Then she dropped her pen.
She bent down to pick it up. Looked up.
And whispered, barely audible, "Why isn't it moving?"
The room went still.
Everyone turned. Some kids laughed, like it was a prank.
I didn't.
I turned my head slowly.
Looked at the wall-length mirror near the back of the classroom.
That's when I saw it.
They weren't moving.
Not just Ava's reflection.
All of them.
Every student. Every reflection.
Standing perfectly still.
Eyes open. Unblinking.
Their real selves fidgeted and looked around and whispered. But their reflections?
Still as statues.
Watching.
I looked at mine.
And realized—
There was nothing there.
No face.
No body.
Just empty glass.
---
That was the moment I knew.
I'm not paranoid.
I'm not imagining it.
Something's wrong with the mirrors.
And whatever used to live inside mine?
It's gone.
"Can my day become anymore screwed?"