At first, it was only movement.A flicker when I passed the hallway mirror. A ripple in the darkened window when I turned off the light.I thought it was my nerves, the exhaustion, the hours spent staring at words that weren't mine.
But tonight, it spoke.
I was brushing my hair when I heard it, a faint voice, low and familiar, like someone speaking from behind the glass. I froze, comb suspended midair, eyes locked on my reflection.
"You never buried me," it said.
The brush clattered to the floor. I didn't move. The voice wasn't coming from behind me, it was inside the mirror.My reflection tilted its head, slightly out of sync with mine.
"You keep rewriting the same night," he whispered. "How many times will you lie to yourself?"
It was Kane's voice. Not a recording, not a dream.It sounded tired. Disappointed.
I stepped closer. My reflection didn't follow. It just stared, eyes darker than mine, lips curved in a faint smirk I didn't make.
"You told them I was driving," he said."You told yourself I forgave you."
I wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come. My mouth moved, but the sound was his. Every breath that fogged the mirror carried fragments of our past, laughter, arguments, pages of old drafts.
The mirror began to pulse, as though something inside wanted out. The surface rippled, and for a heartbeat, I saw him standing there, wet from the rain, eyes hollow, wearing that same expression he had the night everything ended.
I turned away. But when I looked at the laptop, new words were already waiting:
"You can't hide from your reflection, A.K. I live there now."
And when I looked back at the mirror, it was smiling.