The mirror stayed dark. No reflection, no flicker — just an empty, black void where my face should’ve been.
My phone buzzed again, the sound sharp in the suffocating silence.
"It’s his life now. This one’s yours."
I stared at the message, throat tight. My hands trembled.
The stranger moved closer. His steps didn’t make a sound. His head tilted again, too far to one side, neck bending unnaturally.
He wasn’t smiling anymore. His face was blank. Hollow.
Another buzz.
"You’ll get used to it."
“No,” I whispered, voice shaking. “No, this isn’t real.”
The stranger blinked slowly — and for the first time, I realized his eyes weren’t dark. They were mine. My exact eyes, staring back.
He reached out. Not fast. Slowly. Deliberately.
I couldn’t move. My body refused to listen.
My phone buzzed one more time.
"He didn’t fight this hard when it was his turn."
The stranger’s hand touched my shoulder.
My vision blurred. My head spun. It wasn’t pain — it was worse. It was like my mind was being peeled away, layer by layer.
I saw flashes — memories that weren’t mine. Lives I never lived. I was a child, crying for a mother I didn’t recognize. I was a man, standing at a wedding for a bride I’d never met. I was dying, alone, in a room that wasn’t mine.
The stranger’s voice finally came, low and hollow, like it had to remember how to speak:
"They all get a turn."
My knees buckled. The world tilted.
The last thing I saw was my phone screen, flickering in my hand.
The Stranger In My Photos 26 🤔🤔