The boy who now wore my face stared back at me through the glass, his expression flickering between fear and confusion — like he didn’t know where he was.
I knew exactly where he was.
He was me now.
The thing behind me moved again, slow and deliberate, like it enjoyed watching this unfold. Its voice, still half my mother’s, half something much worse, slithered into my ear.
“You’re almost ready,” it cooed. “Just one more push.”
The glass rippled. Not a crack — a ripple, like the mirror wasn’t solid anymore. My stomach twisted.
The boy on the other side blinked, still mouthing something. His lips moved slowly, and I finally understood what he was saying:
"Who are you?"
My heart stopped.
I tried to answer. I tried to speak, to tell him I was him — the real him — but no sound came out.
Because I wasn’t him anymore.
I wasn’t anyone.
The mirrors around me shifted again. This time, they didn’t show strangers.
They showed people I loved. My mom. My best friend. My sister. All of them standing in my room, talking to him — the boy wearing my life.
They didn’t notice anything wrong.
He laughed like me. He moved like me. He was better at being me than I ever was.
Then he looked up, straight into the mirror. Straight into me.
His expression changed. The fear vanished, replaced by something cold.
He smiled.
Not my smile. His.
Then he mouthed something back.
"Don’t worry. You’ll get your turn."
The thing behind me let out a wet, rattling laugh.
The Stranger In My Photos 44 🤔🤔