Myra Ahmad

The first time it happened, I blamed exhaustion.
I was brushing my teeth, staring at my reflection like I did every night, when something felt… off. A wrongness I couldn’t place. The girl in the mirror blinked a second too late, her lips parting slightly, like she was about to say something.
I froze, toothbrush still in my mouth. My pulse stumbled.
When I looked closer, everything was normal.
Just my tired mind playing tricks on me.

The second time, I wasn’t so sure.
It was past midnight again. Another long day buried in notes, my brain sluggish with exhaustion. I barely registered my reflection as I walked into the bathroom. But as I turned away, something caught my eye.
She wasn’t moving.
I lifted a hand.
She didn’t.
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
We stared at each other—me and the girl in the mirror who was supposed to be me. She tilted her head, slow, deliberate. As if she’d been waiting.
I forced myself to whisper, “Who are you?”
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Then, she smiled.
Not my smile.
Hers stretched too wide, teeth too sharp under the fluorescent light.
I stumbled back, gripping the sink. The mirror rattled, and just like that—she was me again. Perfectly synchronized.
I barely slept that night.
The next morning, I avoided mirrors. I dressed in the dark, kept my head down, and ignored the ghostly reflection in shop windows. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe stress.
That night, I gave in.
I stood in front of the mirror, heart hammering, and forced myself to look.
At first, nothing happened.
Then she smirked.
I didn’t.
She raised a hand—but instead of mirroring me, she pressed her fingers against the glass. Testing it.
As if she wasn’t trapped.
As if I was.
I took a step back. “You’re not real.”
She laughed.
Not from the mirror.
From behind me.
I spun around.
Nothing. Just my dimly lit bathroom, the hum of the flickering light, my own ragged breath.
When I turned back, the mirror was empty.
She was gone.
The days blurred. I avoided reflections like they were poison. My phone screen, car windows, even the dull shine of a spoon—I couldn’t risk it.
And then, one night, I woke up.
The room was dark, suffocatingly still. The air felt wrong.
I sat up slowly, scanning the shadows.
And then I saw her.
Not in the mirror.
She stood at the foot of my bed.
She looked like me, but not. Her eyes were wrong, too dark, too empty.
“You left the door open,” she said.
Her voice was soft, familiar. But it wasn’t mine.
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t.”
She smiled again. That same too-wide grin.
“Yes, you did.”
I pressed myself against the headboard. “What do you want?”
She tilted her head.
“To come home.”
Something cold slithered through my chest. “Home?”
She stepped closer. “You don’t remember, do you?”
The air grew thick, pressing against my skin. The shadows around her flickered, bending like they belonged to someone else.
Then, in a voice that wasn’t mine, she whispered, “You’re on the wrong side.”
The memories hit me all at once.
A shattered mirror. A desperate scream. A hand reaching through the glass—my hand—grasping, pulling.
A reflection stepping out.
Me, stepping in.
The world tilted. The walls, the bed, the air itself felt suddenly unfamiliar, like a place I’d only borrowed.
Like something that was never really mine.
I looked at her—at me—and knew the truth.
I wasn’t the one watching from the mirror.
I was the one trapped inside.
And she had come to take it back.
She reached for me.
I tried to move, to fight, but my body was sluggish, heavy, like I was sinking into something deep and endless.
The last thing I saw was her smile, bright and cruel and victorious.
Then—
Darkness.
I wake up.
Sunlight streams through my window. My bed feels solid beneath me, warm and familiar. The air is light, right. My heart pounds as I throw the covers off, running to the nearest mirror.
My reflection stares back.
Perfectly synchronized.
I lift a hand. She does too.
I study my face, my eyes. Normal. Real.
It was a nightmare.
Had to be.
And yet—
As I turn away, a flicker of movement catches my eye.
In the mirror, my reflection lingers just a second too long before following.
And for the first time in days, I smile.
Because I remember now.
I’m home.
And she isn’t.

Myra Ahmad is a 17-year-old writer whose work delves into the intricacies of human experience. With a style that blends personal reflection and broader themes, she explores identity, emotion, and the complexities of life.