The Stranger in My Photos 41 I didn’t know how long I stared at the rows of mirrors. Each one held a face — people I didn’t recognize, but I could feel their fear. Their fists slammed against the glass, mouths open in silent screams. And in every mirror, standing just behind them, was a shadow. Not a person. Not quite. Just an outline of something watching, waiting. I wasn’t special. I was just next. My reflection smiled again, the stranger still wearing my face like it fit better on him than it ever did on me. He leaned in close to his side of the glass, like he was sharing a secret. “You’ll get used to it,” he whispered. His voice wasn’t mine anymore. It wasn’t anyone’s. It sounded hollow, stretched too thin. Then he turned and walked away — with my life. I watched him pick up my phone, joke with my friends, hug my mom. He laughed in a way I never could. He wasn’t pretending to be me. He was me now. I banged on the glass until my fists went numb. The thing behind me stirred again — the twisted, skin-hanging mockery of my mom. She leaned in close, black ooze dripping from her mouth. “Soon,” she cooed, her voice wet and crackling. “You’ll be ready.” My throat burned. My mind screamed. But my body? It felt heavier. Slower. The other reflections… they weren’t screaming anymore. They were just watching me. Waiting. The light flickered, and I felt it in my chest — that pull again, like something inside me wasn’t mine anymore. Like it never was. My reflection stared back one last time. Then it blinked — a second too late — and whispered: "Don’t worry. You’ll be someone new soon."
The Stranger In My Photos 42 🤔🤔