The Man in the Mirror Isn’t Me

The Man in the Mirror Isn’t Me

By Nadeem Shah

I first noticed it one morning, just after waking up. The bathroom was still shrouded in dawn’s faint blue light, and I stumbled toward the mirror to splash some water on my face. As I looked up, my reflection smiled. But I didn’t.

I blinked, startled. My reflection’s grin stretched wider, almost predatory, while my own lips remained stiff and uncertain. It felt like looking at a stranger wearing my skin. I shook my head and laughed nervously. Maybe I was still half-asleep.

But the smile stayed.

That day at work, I kept catching glimpses of myself in windows and glass surfaces, and every time, my reflection was just slightly… off. Not mirroring me exactly. Sometimes it lingered longer after I looked away, sometimes it didn’t mimic my movements perfectly. I chalked it up to fatigue and a stressed mind.

But that night, when I stood before the bathroom mirror again, I realized it was worse.

The man staring back wasn’t me.

He wasn’t trying to mimic me. His eyes were sharper, darker. His jaw clenched like he was suppressing something violent. I reached out to touch the glass, and he did the same—except his fingers hovered a half-inch from mine, like a barrier I couldn’t cross.

A chill ran down my spine.

I spoke, “Who are you?”

His lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The next morning, my reflection was gone. Or at least, it didn’t respond. It mimicked my actions perfectly, like a normal reflection. I exhaled, relief flooding me. Maybe it had been a nightmare. Or a trick of the mind.

But the relief was brief.

Because the man in the mirror wasn’t done.

Over the next few days, small things began to shift. I’d find objects in places I didn’t remember putting them. I started forgetting entire conversations or misremembering details. Worst of all, I began having these… flashes. Moments when I’d look up and catch the reflection smirking on its own, or watching me with a look of contempt.

One evening, I came home to find my apartment door unlocked. Inside, the lights flickered erratically. On the living room wall, scrawled in a shaky hand, was a message: “Let me out.”

I didn’t know what to make of it. Was I sleepwalking? Had someone broken in? I called the police, but there was no sign of forced entry. No footprints. Nothing.

That night, I stared into the mirror again, demanding answers. The man looked back with a slow, sinister smile.

“I’m you,” he whispered, voice low and chilling. “The part you hide. The part you deny.”

“What do you want?” I asked, voice trembling.

“To be free.”

I stepped back, heart hammering. “I’m not letting you out.”

He laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in my head long after I turned away.

Days turned into nights without distinction. My reflection’s presence grew stronger. I felt him inside me, pushing and clawing at the walls of my mind. Sometimes I caught myself acting strangely—an anger I didn’t recognize flaring up at minor irritations, an urge to do things I would never consider.

I tried talking to friends, but my words came out jumbled, my thoughts scattered. The man in the mirror was taking more control than I cared to admit.

One night, I woke up standing in front of the bathroom mirror, eyes wide open, but my body moving without me. The man was there, grinning wider than ever.

“Almost time,” he said.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came.

Suddenly, the mirror rippled like water, and he reached out through it, his hand crossing the glass barrier.

I stumbled backward, knocking over the sink. My heart raced as he pressed his palm against mine from the other side.

“Let me in,” he said softly.

I slammed the bathroom door and locked it, pressing my back against the wood, gasping for breath. But the whisper came through the cracks.

“You can’t hide forever.”

The next morning, I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. His face was there—my face—but his eyes gleamed with a dark hunger. When I opened my mouth to speak, the words that came out were not mine.

“I am coming.”

Panic took over. I started researching—anything about reflections, possession, or doppelgängers. Some old folklore said that mirrors were windows to other worlds, that sometimes a darker self could cross over if given the chance.

I knew I had to fight back.

Armed with determination, I covered every mirror in my apartment with thick cloths and cardboard. I avoided reflective surfaces. I kept my phone camera ready, snapping pictures of myself whenever I could to check if the image was real or fake.

The man in the mirror responded by making the nights unbearable. Whispering in the dark. Moving shadows. Flickering lights. I could feel his presence behind my eyes, his breath on my neck.

One night, exhausted and broken, I confronted him again.

“If you’re me, then prove it,” I demanded.

The mirror vibrated, and slowly, the glass turned opaque. Then it shattered inward, falling like water to the floor.

The man stepped out.

He was real. Flesh and blood. And he looked nothing like me—at least not the me I remembered.

He smiled cruelly, eyes burning with a sinister light.

“I am the part of you that you bury. The rage, the hate, the darkness you refuse to face.”

I backed away, terrified but desperate.

“Why me? Why now?”

“Because you’re weak. Because you tried to lock me away.”

His voice was the sound of a nightmare made flesh.

I grabbed a shard of the broken mirror lying on the floor, holding it like a weapon.

“I won’t let you take me.”

He laughed, a sound that made my blood run cold.

“For now,” he said, stepping forward.

In that moment, I realized the battle wasn’t just about control. It was about acceptance. About facing the parts of myself I’d hidden away for years—the anger, the bitterness, the fear.

I dropped the shard.

“Then come,” I said quietly.

He stopped.

The mirror man’s face softened for a split second—vulnerability flashing through the menace.

And then he vanished.

The mirrors in my apartment were still broken. But the reflection in the bathroom mirror was finally mine again. No smiles. No lies.

Just me.