The Mirror That Responded

"A foe is something you fight," they say. However, what should you do if it doesn't defend itself? When it merely observes?

On the stormy night, I saw a vision of the Mirror.

It was only meant to be a tall, antique item that I had purchased from a secondhand store on the outskirts of the city; nothing particularly noteworthy. A single scratch that runs down the middle like a small crack in ice, a gold frame, and tarnished glass. I was informed by the merchant that it originated from a "Calyran estate," one of those aristocratic families who vanished during the purges. I didn't give a damn. All I wanted was something vintage to occupy the blank wall.

The streets were painted blue and white that night as lightning scudded across the skyline. Every spark was captured by the mirror too precisely. The glass continued to glow even after the room went dark again, as if the light were still present.

I initially believed I was dreaming. When I was not looking, I saw a glimpse of movement. The lag of a second in my reflection. When I stood too close, I heard a faint sound that sounded like breathing.

The whisper then came.

It just said my name at first. The way someone would say that with a smile on their face, soft and drawn out. It must have been the wind, I told myself. However, the same tone and composure were used when the voice spoke again, but this time the words made my stomach turn.

"I shouldn't have been taken by you."

I switched on all of the apartment's lights. Nothing. All I could see was my own pale, frightened reflection.

I covered it with a sheet the following day. However, every time I passed by, I could still feel it observing, the slight warmth against the back of my neck. The sheet occasionally moved in the corner of my eye, as if there was breathing beneath it.

I had a dream that night that I was standing in front of the mirror once more, but this time my reflection remained still. It did nothing but observe. Then it grinned. Not my grin. More expansive. Too big.

The sheet was gone when I woke up.

The voice now appears each night. It's mine sometimes. It isn't always. it occasionally expresses things I've never shared with anyone. Additionally, the mirror no longer replicates me when I gaze in it. It is slightly closer. If I don't move, it tilts its head.

I have no idea what it desires. All I'm aware of is what it stated last night:

"Now you are the reflection."

Since then, I haven't looked. I avoid looking at anything that reflects, such as phone screens, windows, and puddles. However, I still sense it. Awaiting. Studying.

It's not attempting to murder me. I'm not being haunted by it. It's attempting to take my place.

And that might be worse.

Because I think I can see it move every now and then as I pass by that shadowed area of the room. And when it does...My own voice whispers back to me:

"I am the real you."

Five days have passed since my last search. Once more, I've covered the mirror with a heavier cloth. A thick enough blanket to block out sound. I can still hear it, though.

It hums at night sometimes. Steady, low, almost melodic. The music seems to be buzzing with me as it travels through the flooring and into my chest.

I attempted to move it. The entire thing was dragged into the hallway and placed against the wall. It was standing in the corner, uncovered, just as it had always been when I woke up the following morning.

I can't recall moving the blanket. I also don't recall ever standing in front of it. But my bare feet, facing the glass, left tracks I don't remember placing.

I began to hear the voice once more on the sixth night. Not the murmur. Not the icy hiss that used to infuriate me. This time, it was me.

Kind and patient.

"You don't have to hide."

I sat on the floor with my eyes closed, my phone in my palm, and the flashlight shaking in my fingers.

It said, "I'm exhausted. You can relax. I can take care of this for you."

I pushed a dresser against the frame after tossing another blanket over it. The hum, however, continued.

I discovered something new the following morning.

Writing.

Etched on the window's frost. My handwriting.

OBSERVE. ONLY ONE TIME.

Since then, I've discovered more every day. Small phrases scrawled in inappropriate places, such as on the inside of my pillowcase, the refrigerator door, and the bathroom mirror. There's always something soft, almost compassionate, about them.

You appear worn out.

I'm capable of handling it.

You don't have to fear who you are.

The voice has inscreaed in volume. It occasionally speaks to me as I'm attempting to fall asleep. Other voices, those I miss, people who never said goodbye, are heard.

It's probably learning from me. It is aware of my speech, cadence, and memory. It is no longer copying. It's remembering.

When I woke up last night, my phone's camera was open. The image on the screen was of me asleep in bed. Except...I stood with my back to me. Near the mirror.

How long I've been up is a mystery to me. The hours continued to pass in union. However, I sense that it is waiting. It is patient. And kind. And no longer angry.

All it wants to do is switch places.

I'm constantly reminding myself not to look. Not once. Tonight, however, the hum is more intense, and my name is being whispered by my reflection through the blanket.

"You appear worn out."

It might not hurt to rest, just once.

The buzzing was getting to be too much for me. Hours has passed while it continued to vibrate through the walls as if it were alive, steady as breathing. One by one, the blankets had begun to fall away once more, until the mirror was the only thing exposed.

I don't recall approaching it. I only recall standing in front of it, getting close enough to see the glass clouded by my breath.

My relfection remained motionless for the first time. As I moved, blinked, and swallowed, it remained motionless. It had too big, too black eyes. My face, but incorrectly extended in areas that shouldn't have been there.

"Who are you?" I muttered.

It grinned.

"You," it said. "Better, though."

Then, as if the air were folded in two, the room bowed. My reflection reached up and touched the glass with its hand. I ought to have run. But I felt a strong desire to follow suit. To come into contact with it. To put a stop to the waiting.

I wasn't cold when my palm touched the surface. It was supple.

Similar to skin.

My touch caused ripples in the glass.

"Don't resist," It muttered. "We've been holding out."

The instant my palm touched the glass, the humming ceased. The feeling of the glass had given way to one of life. Warm. Breathing. Before I could retreat, the surface wrapped around my fingers and swallowed them whole as my mirror grinned.

Next, my wrist. My arm. My face.

Not a sound. No discomfort. Just the feeling of something endless and soft tearing you apart. As if you were slipping inot your own shadow.

Gasping, I opened my eyes, and the world came into sharp focus. My flat. My walls. The same lamp that flickered.

However, everything appeared to be off. Too sharp. Too still. Like oil on water, the hues seeped within.

And there he was, standing on the other side of the mirror from me.

He moved with my garments, with my face, with my silence, rehearsed panic. However, he didn't move when I did. He merely grinned.

I pounded my hands against the glass and yelled, but the sound was inaudible. I was unable to even hear my own breathing. His eyes were slick like spilled ink and black as he moved closer.

He mouthed, "You shouldn't have taken me."

Then he turned.

He entered my universe.

I attemped to follow, but the mirror had solidified once more, becoming flawless and frigid. I pounded it with my bloodied hands. It made no difference.

Through the glass, I could see him walking my floor, answering my phone, and wearing my voice as if it were more comfortable than mine had ever been.

He tilted his head and grinned at something I couldn't see, much as I do when I lie. And I came to a terrible realization for the first time.

The thing in my flat wasn't posing as myself. It was the new me.

And I was now him.

Not a floor or a room, but the interior of the mirror, was the universe that rippled beneath my feet when I gazed down. In the dark glass below, a thousand other faces swam dimly. All of them were looking at me. They all screamed without making any noise. They all come to the same realization.

One more time, I placed my palms to the surface and said into the quiet:

"Let me out, please."

The other version of myself halted. With a gentle smile, he turned his head and whispered back, this time in perfect unison:

"You are already."

The mirror then became black.