The Mirror That Learned My Face

The mirror was already in the room when I moved into the apartment. It stood against the far wall, tall and narrow, with a dark wooden frame scratched by time. I didn’t bring it with me, and the landlord said nothing about it. I assumed the previous tenant had forgotten it, and I was too tired to care.

At first, it was just a mirror.

I used it while getting dressed, brushing my hair, adjusting my collar before work. Everything looked normal. But there was a feeling I couldn’t explain. A small discomfort, like someone standing just behind me when I was alone.

One morning, as I tied my shoes, I noticed something odd. My reflection finished tying its laces a moment after I did. The delay was small, almost nothing, but enough to make my chest tighten. I blamed bad lighting, lack of sleep, and stress. New places always felt strange at the beginning.

The second sign came late at night. I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth. I leaned forward, spit into the sink, and looked up. My reflection was smiling.

I wasn’t.

The smile was thin and quick, disappearing before I could fully react. My heart started racing. I stepped closer. The reflection copied me perfectly again, calm and quiet. I laughed nervously and told myself I was imagining things.

That night, sleep came in broken pieces. I dreamed of glass cracking and hands pressing from the other side.

Over the next few days, the mirror felt different. When I looked tired, my reflection looked rested. When I felt angry, it looked amused. Sometimes, when I walked past it, I swore my reflection’s eyes followed me even after I turned away.

I decided to cover it with an old white sheet. The room felt lighter instantly, as if a heavy silence had been lifted. For the first time in days, I slept deeply.

In the morning, the sheet was folded neatly on the floor.

My stomach dropped. I lived alone. The door was locked. The windows were shut. Nothing else in the room was disturbed.

That night, I heard breathing.

It was slow, steady, and not my own. It came from the direction of the mirror. I sat up in bed, listening. Each breath sounded like practice, as if something was learning how to breathe like a human being.

With shaking hands, I pulled the sheet away.

The reflection stood there, but it wasn’t copying me anymore. It stood straight while I trembled. Its eyes moved when mine didn’t. Its mouth opened slowly.

“You look tired,” it said.

My legs weakened. “You’re not real,” I whispered.

The reflection tilted its head, studying me carefully. “Neither are you,” it replied softly. “Not anymore.”

The glass began to ripple, like water disturbed by wind. A hand pressed against it from the inside, stretching the surface without breaking it. I stepped back, unable to scream.

The reflection smiled wider. “I’ve watched you long enough,” it said. “I know how you move. I know how you think.”

I ran.

I didn’t pack anything. I didn’t look back. I left the apartment barefoot and shaking, never stopping until I reached the street. I stayed with a friend that night and never returned to that place.

Weeks later, while scrolling online, I saw a familiar listing. The same apartment. Same room. Same mirror.

Weeks later, while scrolling online, I saw a familiar listing. The same apartment. Same room. Same mirror.

“Fully furnished,” the description read. “Quiet space. Large mirror included.”

The photo loaded slowly. And there, inside the mirror, was my face.

Smiling calmly.

Waiting.