Morning came like it always did.
Unapologetic.
Loud.
Uninterested in whether I survived the night or not.
My alarm went off at 7:04 a.m., the exact minute it had gone off every weekday for the last eight months. Same ringtone. Same vibration. Same irritation curling in my chest.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time before moving.
The mirror incident replayed in my head—not like a nightmare, but like a memory I hadn't earned yet. It didn't feel imaginary. It felt… recorded.
As if something had taken notes.
I dragged myself out of bed, half-expecting the floor to tilt or the walls to breathe. Nothing did. The room looked normal. Too normal.
That scared me more.
I avoided the bathroom mirror.
Instead, I washed my face in the kitchen sink like a coward, watching the water swirl down the drain as if it knew something I didn't. My phone buzzed again on the counter.
Unknown Number.
I frowned.
I didn't answer.
The notification preview vanished on its own.
That shouldn't have happened.
I grabbed my bag and left the apartment, locking the door twice because my hands wouldn't stop shaking. Outside, the city was already awake—vendors shouting, bikes weaving through traffic, people walking with purpose like the future hadn't personally threatened them.
I envied them.
On the bus, I sat by the window and watched reflections pass over the glass. Faces layered on top of mine. Strangers borrowing my outline for half a second before sliding away.
At one stop, an old man got on and stared at me too long.
Not rudely.
Not curiously.
Like recognition.
When our eyes met, his face drained of color.
He stumbled backward, gripping the pole.
"You—" he breathed. "That's not—"
The bus lurched forward.
He fell into a seat, clutching his chest.
I stood halfway up. "Are you okay?"
He wouldn't look at me.
His lips trembled as he whispered, "You're not supposed to be here."
The bus stopped again.
When I turned back to him, he was already getting off—moving too fast for someone who'd looked that scared a second ago.
No one else reacted.
No one ever does.
At work, my ID badge didn't scan on the first try.
Then the second.
On the third attempt, the machine beeped sharply and displayed a message I'd never seen before.
USER NOT FOUND
I laughed under my breath, because what else do you do when reality jokes at your expense?
My colleague Sana leaned over. "System's glitching again?"
"Yeah," I said. "Guess I don't exist today."
She smiled absently.
"You say that every Monday."
I didn't.
But I let it go.
The day blurred into routine—emails, meetings, empty coffee cups—but something underneath it all felt off. Like the world was responding a half-second late to my movements.
Like it needed time to decide if I was allowed.
At 2:17 p.m., my screen froze.
Not blue-screened.
Not crashed.
Frozen mid-sentence.
I tapped the mouse. Nothing.
Then words appeared on the screen.
Typed by no one.
You shouldn't remember that yet.
My breath caught.
I slammed the laptop shut.
My heart hammered so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it.
No one looked up.
At 6:03 p.m., I went home early with a headache that felt borrowed.
At 6:42 p.m., I stood in front of my apartment door, keys in hand, unable to shake the feeling that someone was inside.
I unlocked it anyway.
The apartment was empty.
Except—
My mirror.
The bathroom light was on.
I hadn't turned it on.
Slowly, carefully, I stepped closer.
The mirror reflected me instantly this time.
Too perfectly.
I leaned in.
So did she.
In sync.
I exhaled shakily.
Then, just as I turned away—
She whispered.
Not out loud.
Inside my skull.
It's already started.
I backed away, heart pounding.
"What has?" I whispered.
The reflection tilted her head.
And for the first time, she looked afraid.