I used to think the worst thing about insomnia was the silence.
Turns out, it's the way silence makes room for thoughts you spend all day running from.
At 3:12 a.m., my phone lay facedown on the bed, still buzzing faintly from a notification I didn't have the energy to read. My room smelled like damp curtains and unfinished nights. I had work in six hours. I didn't care.
Sleep hadn't wanted me for a long time.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth on autopilot, eyes half-open, mind elsewhere. There was a thin crack above the sink that I kept forgetting to fix. It reminded me of something fractured but holding.
I leaned closer to the glass.
For a moment, everything was normal.
Then my reflection blinked.
A second too late.
I froze.
The toothbrush slipped slightly in my hand, foam dripping onto the sink. My heart stuttered — not fast, not slow — confused.
I waited.
The girl in the mirror stared back at me.
Same dark circles.
Same messy hair.
Same face I'd been living in for twenty-two years.
Except something was off.
Not wrong.
Delayed.
I raised my hand.
The reflection followed — but not in sync.
Like bad internet lag.
A nervous laugh bubbled out of me. "Okay… no. Nope. We're not doing this."
I leaned back, rubbed my eyes hard, then looked again.
She was still there.
Watching me like I was the one out of place.
"You're tired," I whispered. "That's all. You've been tired for years."
The reflection didn't answer.
Instead, she smiled.
I didn't.
The smile wasn't cruel.
It wasn't kind.
It was… sad.
And somehow, disappointed.
My heartbeat began to hurt.
"Who are you?" I asked, barely louder than a breath.
The lights flickered.
Not violently — just enough to be noticed.
Pressure filled the room. Not heavy. Not light. Intentional. Like something leaning closer.
Then the reflection raised her hand.
I didn't.
The glass rippled.
Not shattered.
Not cracked.
Bent.
Like reality had softened.
I stumbled backward, my shoulder hitting the doorframe.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no—"
The reflection's lips moved.
I heard the words inside my skull, perfectly clear.
You lived too long.
The mirror went black.
I screamed.
When the lights stabilized, I was alone.
Just me.
Pale.
Shaking.
Alive.
Too alive.
I didn't sleep after that.
Not because I was scared.
But because somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the denial, beneath the panic — I knew something worse.
I recognized her.
Not from this life.
From somewhere I had survived.
And the universe had finally noticed.