THE REFLECTION

I first saw the girl in the mirror two nights after we moved into the dorms.

It wasn’t a clear reflection—just a flicker behind me as I brushed my teeth. A pale face with hollow eyes. When I turned around, no one was there. Just the empty washroom, the dim light buzzing above.

I laughed it off. Maybe I was tired. New place, new school, new stress.

But the next night, she was back.

And this time, she moved when I didn’t.

My roommate, Aanya, didn’t believe me. “You’re too dramatic,” she said, half-asleep. “It’s probably your own reflection playing tricks.”

That night, I stared at the mirror. I moved my hand. The reflection moved, too. But half a second later.

Then it smiled.

I didn’t.

The school counselor, Ms. Kaur, called me in the next day. “Aanya says you haven’t been sleeping.”

I tried explaining. “There’s someone else in the mirror. She watches me.”

She stared. Not shocked. Not concerned. Just… still.

“You’re not the first,” she whispered. Then dismissed me.

That night, Aanya woke up screaming. I ran to her bed. Her arms were scratched with deep red lines—fingernails, it looked like. “She touched me,” she cried. “The girl in the mirror. She came out.”

The mirror was cracked.

The school went silent after that. Aanya was sent home. The next day, her side of the room was cleared like she never existed. No one mentioned her again.

Not even the teachers.

I started avoiding mirrors. Covered the one in our dorm with a towel. But reflections find their way. In windowpanes. Phone screens. Even puddles.

And in each one, she looked more like me.

On the final night of term, I found a file on Ms. Kaur’s desk. Labeled “Reflection Syndrome: Case 47 – Mira Desai.”

That’s my name.

Inside: drawings of the girl. My face, but not quite. Notes about paranoia, hallucinations, and mirror mimicry. And then something that chilled my bones:

“Subject becoming unstable. The reflection is overtaking the host. Recommend complete removal by end of term.”

I ran.

Back to my room. Tore the towel off the mirror.

She was already there, smiling.

“I told you,” she whispered. “This body is mine now.”

Her hand reached through the glass.

They found me the next morning.

Or what looked like me.

She answered all questions. Ate my food. Smiled at my friends.

But if you look closely—really closely—you’ll notice something strange.

Her reflection doesn’t blink.