The first time it happened, Tyler told himself it was just stress. Exams, lack of sleep, maybe too much caffeine. People broke down under pressure all the time.
But tonight, staring into the bathroom mirror, he knew he had run out of excuses.
The glass in front of him gleamed faintly under the bathroom's weak bulb, a pale halo reflecting the gauntness of his own face. His skin looked too thin, his eyes bloodshot, his lips cracked and pale. He didn't even recognize himself anymore.
Except—it wasn't himself.
The reflection didn't move when he blinked. Didn't tilt its head the way his neck ached to. Its smile was wider, its teeth sharper, its eyes deeper shadows in the sockets.
Tyler gripped the porcelain sink so tightly that the veins on his forearms bulged blue. "Stop it," he whispered, throat hoarse. His sweat dripped into the basin, warm and sour smelling. "You're not real. You're just me. You're just tired."
The reflection tilted its head slowly, an exaggerated movement that made Tyler's stomach clench. His stomach twisted with a nauseating heaviness—like he'd swallowed something rotten.
"Not just you," it said.
And the voice came from his own throat.
Tyler gagged, clutching at his neck, his pulse thundering against his fingers as if trying to break free. He stumbled back, knees buckling against the edge of the tub. His skull felt full packed with whispers that weren't his. Breathing that wasn't his. A low chuckle that was too close, too inside.
A knock. Sharp, grounding.
"Tyler?" Jackson's voice, muffled by the door. A worried edge. "You've been in there a long time. Open up."
Tyler stared at the handle, his trembling hand hovering. He wanted—needed—to twist it, to let Jackson in, to let his warmth cut through this icy terror. But his muscles wouldn't obey.
"I'm fine," he forced out, voice thin, raw. "Just… give me a minute."
Silence on the other side. Not the kind of silence that left. Jackson stayed, he knew it, standing sentinel like, he always did. That weight pressed through the wood, heavier than words.
Tyler's gaze slid back toward the mirror.
The reflection hadn't moved.
But the grin—God, the grin—had stretched wider, jaw distorting, lips peeling back too far, almost splitting. His reflection leaned forward even though Tyler hadn't moved an inch.
---
He barely slept that night.
Every time he closed his eyes, the smirk was there, waiting for him in the dark behind his lids. Every time he opened them, he swore shadows shifted across his ceiling, inching closer like spiders crawling just out of sight.
The house itself seemed to breathe around him—the creak of settling boards no longer innocent but rhythmic, like footsteps pacing in the walls.
Jackson had offered to stay in his room. Tyler had snapped at him to leave. So, Jackson lay on the couch in the living room, and the distance between them felt like a chasm. Yet Tyler's mind kept circling back to him anyway. The warmth of his laugh. The way his eyes softened when Tyler let his guard down.
He almost wanted Jackson there. Not to fight the shadows, but to tether him to something human.
But the moment his chest grew warm with the thought, a voice hissed through his skull: He'll see. He'll see what you are. He'll leave you. He'll never love you if he knows.
Tyler rolled onto his side, curling into himself, nails digging crescents into his arms. His throat tightened.
By morning, the reflection hadn't moved from that smile.