I left the lights on when I went to sleep.
All of them.
Bathroom. Kitchen. Even the closet.
The kind of stupid thing people do when they're scared but can't admit it out loud.
But at 3:13 a.m., every bulb flickered once—then cut out.
Every. Single. One.
I sat up on the couch, heart hammering.
Not because of the dark.
But because I hadn't told the room I was going to sleep.
And that seemed to matter now.
---
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't on the couch anymore.
I was standing.
In the hallway.
Facing the mirror.
---
My hands were pressed to the glass.
Forehead leaning against it.
Mouth moving.
I wasn't speaking—at least I didn't think I was.
But the reflection was.
I focused.
Watched my mouth in the mirror form the words slowly, like a chant:
> "You are not Elijah."
> "You are not Elijah."
> "You are not Elijah."
I backed away.
Only… my reflection didn't.
It stayed pressed to the glass.
Smiling.
---
I stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed my phone.
New notification.
No name. Just a single image:
A close-up photo of me.
Asleep.
Face half-lit by the TV screen.
Taken minutes ago.
I checked the apartment. Every corner. Every vent.
No one else was here.
---
I smashed the mirror with a chair.
It didn't crack.
Didn't even scuff.
Instead, it rippled.
Like water.
---
I turned away, planning to run, to just leave—
But something caught my eye on the table:
My notebook.
The one that had vanished.
It was open. And this time…
It had writing.
Pages and pages of handwriting I didn't remember creating.
Each entry dated.
Each one ending the same way:
> "If you're reading this, the room let you forget again."
---
I flipped to the most recent page.
There was no date. No time.
Just five words.
Written in my handwriting.
But it wasn't my voice.
> "Elijah Foster doesn't exist anymore."
---
I grabbed the notebook and ran out the door.
Down the stairs.
Through the lobby.
Onto the street.
No one looked at me.
Even the doorman—who'd nodded at me the day I moved in—kept staring through the glass like I wasn't real.
I walked to a public square, sat on a bench, and called 911.
The call connected.
But all I heard was my own voice again:
> "Hello? You shouldn't have left. It's not safe out there either."
---
The line cut.
My phone shut off.
When I powered it back on—
The background had changed.
A photo of the hallway mirror.
And just barely in the reflection…
A second Elijah.
Standing behind me.
Smiling.
---
I found a small 24-hour café and asked to borrow a pen.
Wrote down everything I could remember.
The mirror.
The voice.
The notebook.
The hallway.
The smell.
The way people forgot me when I left.
---
Then I opened the notebook again.
A new sentence had appeared at the bottom of the last page.
I didn't write it.
I swear to God, I didn't.
It said:
> "Thank you for remembering. You may return now."
I looked up.
The waiter was watching me.
Blank stare.
> "Sir, your apartment's waiting."
---
I ran.
Not back to 4B.
I didn't know where I was running. Just away.
But with every block I passed, things started… glitching.
Street signs vanished behind me.
Shadows stopped following my movements.
People's faces blurred.
Time no longer existed in full hours—just fragments.
Everyone I passed looked at me like they almost recognized me, then forgot immediately.
---
I ducked into an alley to catch my breath.
There was a mirror leaning against the wall.
Old.
Cracked.
But when I looked into it—
I wasn't there.
Not at all.
Just brick wall behind me.
And written across the glass:
> "You left too much of yourself inside."
> "Now there's nothing to reflect."
---
The city didn't know me anymore.
My ID was blank.
Phone wouldn't call out.
Credit card declined.
The world had rebooted—without me.
And somewhere back in that apartment…
Something else was living in my place.
---
I had no choice.
I returned.
Walked up five flights.
Passed neighbors who no longer saw me.
The hallway looked longer now.
Wider.
Like the apartment was breathing out, stretching its lungs.
The door to 4B was already open.
---
I stepped inside.
Everything was as I left it.
But the air was warmer.
The lights were on again—glowing dim red.
My reflection stood in the hallway mirror, waiting for me.
He looked… comfortable.
Like someone who'd always belonged.
---
Then he stepped out.
Not a reflection anymore.
A copy.
A twin.
A thief.
He smiled, took my notebook, and said with a voice that barely echoed:
> "Now you live in the mirror."
---
I screamed.
Reached out to stop him—
But my hand hit glass.
Cold.
Unmoving.
---
And on the other side—
He closed the door.