The Me in the MEError.
I first noticed it on a Tuesday.
Not because anything was different. But because everything was too right.
The mirror in the second-floor bathroom at school had always been slightly cracked. A thin fracture at the top right corner. I used to trace it with my finger first thing at school.
An overworked face post the late-night study sessions stared back at me. It made the place feel real, flawed.
Like me.
But today?
The mirror was perfect.
No cracks. No stains. No faint ghost of the kid who scratched “HELP” into the corner two years ago. Just a spotless, seamless reflection of me. And something behind me.
I spun.
Nothing.
Just the flickering tube light and the leaky tap.
I turned back to the mirror.
The figure was still there.
It was me. But not quite.
Eyebrows raised a little. Slightly crooked smile. Tilted head. Like he was mocking me. Like he knew something I didn’t.
I blinked. Hard.
The reflection smiled wider.
And winked.
—
I didn’t tell anyone.
What do you even say? “Hey, my mirror self’s got a personality disorder”? Yeah, no thanks.
So I kept it to myself. And the day carried on as usual.
But that night, something shifted.
I woke up gasping in my hostel bed. Sweat drenched the bedsheet. My fan spun lazily overhead like it couldn’t be bothered.
There was glass on the floor.
Shards, scattered like teeth. And the mirror, the full-length one next to my closet, was missing.
No frame. No trace. Just an empty wall with faint marks where it once hung.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
From Me.
“Don’t sleep tomorrow night. Come back to the school bathroom. 3 AM.”
I laughed.
Then I stopped laughing.
Because the timestamp showed it was sent yesterday.
Before any of this had happened.
—
I didn’t go. Of course I didn’t.
Except…I did.
We always do, don’t we? When curiosity outshouts fear.
3:00 AM. The bathroom smelled like bleach and mold. I stood there, facing the mirror again.
Only this time, it wasn’t perfect. It was moving.
My reflection blinked slower than I did. Mouthed words I didn’t say. Smiled when I frowned.
Then he raised his hand and pointed.
Not at me. Past me.
At the cubicle in the corner.
My chest tightened.
There was scratching. Barely audible. Like fingernails on wood.
A sound you feel in your teeth more than in your ears.
I opened the stall.
Nothing.
Then I looked down.
A puddle. Black.
Not water. Not blood. Just…wrong.
And from its surface, a face stared back at me.
Mine.
But it was sobbing.
Let me out, it mouthed.
I stepped back. The door slammed shut, and the mirror self was gone.
Only my own reflection remained.
Breathing fast. Shaking. Terrified.
But alone. For now.
—
Over the next few days, things unraveled like a loose thread.
People forgot me.
Not in the metaphorical, teenage-angst way.
They literally forgot me.
My name vanished from attendance. Teachers skipped over me. Friends walked past like I wasn’t there.
Even my mom.
When I went home, she screamed and said there was a stranger in her house. Called the police. I ran.
It didn’t make sense.
Until I looked in a mirror again.
The reflection wasn’t mine anymore. It was his.
And he wasn’t on the other side.
He was here.
He had taken my place.
—
I don’t remember how long I’ve been down here.
The room behind the mirror isn’t a place. It’s a consequence.
A prison beneath the surface of every mirror.
Each time someone gazes too long into the glass, it watches. Waits.
For the cracks in them.
Trauma. Regret. Guilt.
Mirrors love guilt.
Because that’s how the door opens.
And once you trade places, even for a second, there’s no going back.
You become the echo. The trapped. The almost-real.
You’re not dead.
But you don’t exist either.
—
Sometimes, I scream through the mirrors.
Hope someone sees me. Recognizes the pain in my eyes.
But most people just glance. Fix their collar. Set their hair. Move on.
Not him though. Not the new Me.
He stares.
He knows.
And he smiles.
Because now, he gets to live.
While I fade like steam on glass.
—
But the mirrors still watch.
And one day,
You’ll stare too long.
You’ll see something that doesn’t quite match.
And you’ll blink.
And switch.
Because this Room is patient.
It waits. For someone cracked enough to look too closely.
Maybe you already have.
Maybe you…aren’t you.
While you’re still trying to wrap your head around this story that I wrote at 3 AM, do check out other stories I’ve written. Linked here.
Image credits: Pinterest.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of my imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. || Contents of this story should not be reproduced in any manner without permission.
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