The mirror hangs crooked above a chipped wooden dresser, its silver backing peeling at the corners like old skin. I remember buying it from a roadside stall.
I died before I knew I was dead.
At first, I thought it was just a reflection of mine. But something was always off. The room behind me looks the same: the same flickering tube light and the same crack running through the wall, but the sounds don’t reach me right. His footsteps come muted, like they belong to another world.
He scratches his jaw. I follow, but a fraction too late.
He leaves the room. But I can't.
That’s when I realized. I’m not the one outside.
I’m trapped inside the glass, copying the man who took my place.
Sometimes, late at night, he stands very close… staring into me, smiling softly, like he’s checking on something he owns.
And every day, I get better.
One day, I’ll move first.
And when I do… he won’t be the one who leaves.