I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My reflection stared back at me, but it wasn’t me anymore — it was him. The stranger. Wearing my face like it finally fit.
The worst part? He didn’t look wrong anymore. He looked… comfortable. Like this was how it was always supposed to be.
My phone buzzed again, vibrating weakly in my hand. My thumb shook as I looked down at the screen.
One last message:
"Time to trade places."
The mirror rippled, the glass bending like water. My reflection took a step closer — but the sound didn’t come from the mirror. It came from behind me.
Slow. Heavy. Wet footsteps.
I spun around, but the room wasn’t my room anymore. The walls pulsed with that sick, fleshy rhythm, the photos warped and dripping like they were melting.
And he was there. Not the reflection. Him.
Closer than ever before.
His head tilted, that too-wide smile stretching again. He raised a hand, fingers snapping backward with a sickening crack — and pointed at the mirror.
It wasn’t showing me anymore.
It was showing my room. The real one. Bright, clean, normal. And someone was sitting on my bed.
It was me.
The other me blinked, stretched, and looked at the phone in his hand. My phone. He smiled softly — a normal, human smile — then glanced up at the mirror. His eyes met mine.
He shook his head slowly.
"Stay there."
The mirror went dark. The stranger stepped closer.
The Stranger In My Photos 25 🤔🤔