Every night before sleep, I stand in front of the mirror, toothbrush in hand, scrutinizing the reflection. The silence is thick, broken only by the rhythmic sound of brushing and the distant hum of a heater. My gaze darts behind me, seeking movement, but the room remains undisturbed. Comforted by the normalcy, I let out a small, nervous laugh.
Tonight, as foamy toothpaste gathers aqt my lips, I glance at the mirror and freeze. My reflection sits calmly at the sink, but I am still brushing my teeth away from it. The sight is wrong, uncanny, and my heart thuds loudly in my chest. I turn, half-expecting someone to be behind me, but the air is empty.
Facing the mirror again, I see my reflection grinning—a wide, toothy smile that doesn’t match the fear etched on my face. I feel rooted to the spot, unable to look away as the reflection’s hand rises with deliberate slowness. It presses against the glass from the inside, fingers splayed, and taps three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The tapping echoes in the sudden darkness, sharp and hollow. I strain to see, panic rising in my throat, unable to tell if the reflection is still moving. The air feels heavy, thick with dread. Then, from the blackness behind me, a voice whispers, chilling and intimate.
"Your turn to reflect," the whisper slithers into my ear, close enough that I feel the breath on my neck. I spin, searching for the source, but the room is empty—no one stands behind me. My skin prickles with terror as the reflection beckons, its smile growing impossibly wide. The glass trembles, as if inviting me to cross over.
I reach out, compelled by the reflection’s silent invitation, fingers grazing the cold glass. The world flips—suddenly, I am inside, looking out at my own room. My real self stands outside, eyes wide in shock, mirroring the fear I once felt. The smile creeps onto my lips, unbidden, as I tap the glass from within. Tap. Tap. Tap.
