Mirage

The mirrors never stopped lying to her.

Even now, under the glow of the vanity lights, she saw herself—the flawless skin, the poised smile, the woman the world adored. Aisha Verma. Star. Icon. Wife. But when she touched the reflection, it rippled like smoke.

Because Aisha was dead.

It happened three months ago. The car crash was splashed across every tabloid: Bollywood’s Brightest Flame Extinguished in Tragic Accident. The industry wept, her fans built shrines, and her husband, Aarav, went silent.

But grief has its own hauntings. Some nights, Aarav still heard her humming in the kitchen. Her perfume lingered in the hallways. And when he looked up from his desk at midnight, he sometimes caught a glimpse—just a flicker—of her reflection in the glass door, smiling.

At first, he thought it was memory. Then obsession. But soon, it began speaking back.

“Why didn’t you stop me that night?”

He’d wake up drenched in sweat, whispering apologies to an empty room.

Two months later, his friend Rohan arrived from London. “You need to move on, man,” Rohan said, his tone too light, too casual. “You’re seeing ghosts.”

Aarav laughed bitterly. “That’s easy to say when the ghost isn’t your wife.”

Rohan grinned. “Then maybe it’s time you met someone who can make you forget.”

That evening, Rohan introduced her. Meera.

Aarav froze.

She looked exactly like Aisha—same eyes, same curve of the lips, the same way she tucked her hair behind her ear. For a moment, Aarav thought it was her, risen from the dead. His heart stopped, breath snagged in his throat.

Rohan chuckled. “Crazy, right? She’s an aspiring actress. I’m helping her with her career.”

But something about the way Rohan said it made Aarav’s skin crawl.

Over the next week, Aarav noticed strange things. Meera seemed frightened, constantly glancing over her shoulder. Once, she came to Aarav’s door late at night, trembling. “He won’t let me leave,” she whispered. “He says I have to become her.”

Rohan’s obsession ran deeper than anyone guessed. He had turned Meera into Aisha—same makeup, same clothes, same roles, same voice. He called her my perfect Mirage.

Aarav’s guilt turned to fury.

That night, Aarav broke into Rohan’s house. The walls were covered with photos of Aisha and Meera—merged, spliced, indistinguishable. In the center of the room, Rohan stood before a camera, directing Meera to recite Aisha’s last dialogue.

When Aarav pulled her away, Rohan lunged. “You can’t take her! She’s Aisha! She never died!”

Aarav struck him—once, twice—and the mad gleam in Rohan’s eyes faded.

As the police dragged Rohan away, Aarav looked at Meera. Her tear-streaked face glowed in the flashing blue lights. For a second, he thought he saw her again—Aisha—smiling through her.

“Thank you,” Meera whispered.

Aarav nodded, but his gaze lingered on the night sky. For the first time in months, the air felt still, the house quiet. The mirrors reflected only him.

The mirage had lifted.

But as he turned off the lights, a soft whisper floated from the dark—

“You can’t rescue someone from what doesn’t exist.”

And when he looked back, the mirror rippled once more.