The Reflection That Wasn’t

It started on an ordinary evening. Areeba had returned to her apartment after a long day at work, tired and distracted. The building was old but well-maintained, with narrow hallways and the faint smell of damp paint. In her small bathroom, the mirror above the sink reflected her as usual, pale and exhausted. Or so she thought.

The first night, she noticed something subtle. As she washed her hands, her reflection hesitated. For just a second, her reflection didn’t mimic her movements perfectly. Her hand lifted slightly after she did. She frowned and shook her head. She must be imagining it. Fatigue plays tricks, she told herself.

The second night, the anomaly grew bolder. She entered the bathroom to brush her teeth and froze. The reflection smiled before she did. A grin stretched wider than her own mouth, unnatural and cruel. Her body stiffened, and for a heartbeat, the reflection was not hers. She blinked, and it was normal again. She laughed nervously, telling herself stress and sleepless nights were the cause.

By the third night, the mirror no longer waited for small movements. It began to act independently. She noticed the reflection lingering even when she moved away from the sink. She would turn her head quickly, and it would be watching her from a slightly different angle, tilting its head unnaturally. She started avoiding the bathroom at night, choosing to wait until daylight.

But daylight brought no relief. One afternoon, she saw it while doing laundry in her tiny kitchenette. The reflection was already in the mirror above the sink, even though she had not looked in its direction. Its eyes followed her, dark and empty, as if studying her for a purpose she could not understand. When she approached, it mirrored her movements once—but then paused, raising a hand slowly as if to beckon her.

Areeba’s panic grew. She tried cleaning the mirror, thinking there might be dirt or condensation tricking her eyes, but the surface was flawless. She tried covering it, but every reflective surface in the apartment—windows, polished tables, even her phone screen—began showing the same thing. It wasn’t her reflection anymore. It was something else, something patient. Something watching.

She began seeing details in the reflection she did not have: scratches on the wall that didn’t exist, shadows moving in corners where none should be, and objects slightly out of place. Once, she saw a figure standing behind her in the reflection. She spun around. Nothing. She looked back. The figure remained, eyes hollow, wearing her face but smiling in a way she never had.

Nights grew unbearable. Sleep was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, the reflection crept into her dreams, whispering in a voice that was hers but wasn’t. It told her things she didn’t want to hear: secrets she never admitted, fears she tried to ignore, thoughts she had never thought aloud. The voice promised freedom if she joined it. Areeba began to realize that the reflection wanted her—to replace her, to escape through her body, or to trap her consciousness behind the glass.

Desperate, she moved her belongings, tried mirrors in every room, and even covered windows with heavy curtains. Nothing helped. The reflection waited. Patient. Silent. Watching. And it always knew when she looked away.

One evening, she stared into the bathroom mirror, hand shaking, and asked, “What do you want from me?” The reflection tilted its head and smiled wider than any human could, a smile full of malice and intelligence. Then it whispered, barely audible, “You already belong to me.”

From that moment, Areeba’s reality shifted. The reflection no longer mimicked her actions at all. It moved on its own, appearing in photographs she hadn’t taken, in phone screens she hadn’t turned on. She began losing time—hours she could not account for, memories she could not trust. And each time she looked at a reflective surface, the reflection grinned knowingly, reminding her that she was never alone.

Eventually, she left the apartment, leaving everything behind. The landlord entered days later, noting the mirror untouched. When he looked into it, he saw only his own reflection. But for a moment, he swore he saw a woman behind him, smiling in a way that did not belong to the living.

The mirror waits. Always. And those who look too closely may never leave.