There's no mirror in my room.
They removed it after the fourth incident.
After I screamed so hard the night nurse bit her tongue and had to be stitched.
> "You were pointing at the wall," they said.
> "You kept saying there were two of you."
I still won't look directly at the stainless-steel water tap.
Because I saw it again this morning.
Just for a moment.
In the chrome curve—me, smiling.
But I wasn't smiling.
---
They tell me it was trauma.
That my brain fractured under the weight of grief and fear.
That survivor's guilt plays tricks.
That I should be thankful I lived.
They don't understand:
> I didn't survive.
> Something else did.
---
I know because the room watches me.
Every night, around 3:13 a.m., the wall opposite my bed turns dark.
Like something behind it is pressing close.
Not pushing through, no.
Just leaning.
Observing.
And always—I hear a low sound:
Not humming.
Not breathing.
Something like a VHS tape rewinding inside bone.
---
It started back at Greenhill.
In that one room we shouldn't have opened.
The one with the door marked "RESTRICTED – FORMER PATIENT FILES."
It was padlocked. But Ravi kicked it open like it was a game.
Inside?
Dozens of black-and-white photos.
Unlabeled film reels.
And a sign on the far wall:
> "THE MOUTH MUST FORGET TO CLOSE."
I don't even know what that means.
But I've heard it whispered in my sleep ever since.
---
We found a tape recorder on a table.
No cassette inside.
Just one word scratched into the plastic with something sharp:
> "SPEAK."
---
We should've left.
We should've never opened the drawer.
But Nisha did.
And found a set of medical notes.
Seclusion Protocol
Patient 34A
Mirror Aversion
Reflection Confusion Disorder
And at the bottom of every page—
Stamped in red:
> "Patient believes they are being watched by themselves."
---
I remember reading that and laughing.
Even as my palms sweat.
> "Can someone actually go insane thinking their own reflection isn't them?"
> "You're laughing now," Nisha said. "But I read that once in some ritual psychology course…"
> "They say when a person truly sees something other than themselves in the mirror—"
> "—that thing sees them back."
---
I thought it was just talk.
Until Kavya vanished.
Until her voice came from the wrong direction.
Until her phone pinged from a room we hadn't entered yet—and she answered it.
Said:
> "Sorry, Arjun. Wrong me."
---
Now, in this hospital, even the walls remember.
I try to sleep with the lights on.
But they flicker now. Every night, at 3:13.
Like the hospital is synced with Greenhill.
Like something followed me back.
---
Today, Dr. Shah gave me a mirror.
A small one. Round. No frame. Unbreakable.
He wanted me to "face the hallucination."
I held it.
Slowly raised it toward my face.
At first, nothing.
Just me.
Tired.
Sunken eyes.
Dry lips.
Then—
My reflection blinked.
Before I did.
---
I threw the mirror across the room.
It didn't break.
But it laughed.
Just once.
Not out loud. Not in the room.
In my head.
Like the memory had been planted there.
Like my mirror-self had spoken back then, and I was only now catching up to it.
---
There's a phrase written in the corner of my cell wall.
I didn't write it.
The doctors say no one did.
It reads:
> "You kept filming. So now it knows how to remember you."
---
They say memories fade with time.
But not this one.
This one is clearer every day.
Because I keep reliving it.
Because it keeps changing in the retelling.
And because…
I'm not sure I'm the one remembering it anymore.
---
Some nights, I check the security monitor when the nurses forget to lock the cabinet.
And every now and then—
For just a second—
I see a second me, standing beside my bed.
Not touching.
Just watching.
As if learning how to wear me better next time.
---
I haven't slept in 3 nights.
I'm afraid if I do, it'll finish replacing me.
Because what they don't understand is…
The camera kept recording.
Even after I dropped it.
Even after I ran.
Even after I was "saved."
---
And whoever picked it up last?
Is still inside.