The Mirror That Blinked

I noticed the mirror on the second day after moving into my new room. It was tall, narrow, and leaned against the wall instead of hanging properly. I was sure it hadn’t been there when I first inspected the place, but the landlord insisted it belonged to the room. I didn’t argue. It was just a mirror, after all.

At first, everything felt normal. I used the mirror every morning while getting ready for work. It showed my tired face, my messy hair, and nothing else. But sometimes, when I walked past it quickly, I felt like my reflection reacted a second too late. I told myself it was just my imagination playing tricks on me.

One night, after a long and exhausting day, I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth. The light above flickered briefly. When it steadied, I froze. My reflection was staring back at me, but its eyes looked wider, more alert, as if it was watching me instead of copying me. I blinked hard, and the reflection returned to normal.

I laughed nervously and went to bed.

The next evening, I noticed something worse. I waved my hand in front of the mirror. My reflection waved back—but not at the same time. It followed my movement just a moment too late. My heart began to race. I stepped closer, staring directly into my own eyes.

Then the reflection blinked.

I hadn’t.

I stumbled backward, my breath shaking. I told myself it was stress, lack of sleep, anything that sounded reasonable. Still, that night, I covered the mirror with a bedsheet before going to sleep.

In the middle of the night, I woke to a soft sound. It was like fabric sliding across glass. I sat up slowly and saw the bedsheet lying on the floor. The mirror was uncovered.

And my reflection was smiling.

I wasn’t.

The smile on its face was wrong—too wide, too calm. It lifted its hand and placed it against the glass from the inside. I backed away until my legs hit the bed. My reflection leaned forward, its lips moving silently.

I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. The reflection’s smile faded instantly, copying my terrified expression again. The mirror looked normal, innocent, as if nothing had happened.

The next day, I asked the landlord about the mirror. His face tightened. He avoided my eyes and said the previous tenant had left suddenly, without explanation. When I asked why, he said only one thing: “Some people don’t like seeing themselves for too long.”

That night, I decided to get rid of the mirror. I wrapped it in a blanket and dragged it toward the door. As I passed by it, I heard a soft knock—from inside the glass. I dropped it immediately and ran out of the room.

When I returned with a friend, the mirror was back in its original place, uncovered and spotless. My friend laughed and told me I was overthinking things. I didn’t argue. I didn’t want him to look into it for too long.

When I returned with a friend, the mirror was back in its original place, uncovered and spotless. My friend laughed and told me I was overthinking things. I didn’t argue. I didn’t want him to look into it for too long.

That night, I dreamed I was trapped behind glass, screaming silently while someone else wore my face. I woke up sweating and rushed to the mirror.

It reflected the empty room

Slowly, my reflection appeared, stepping into view from the side, smiling gently. It raised its hand and waved.

I raised mine back, because I couldn’t stop myself.

And this time, it didn’t copy me.