The shard burned in my hand — not hot, but cold, like ice laced with electricity. The moment I touched it, the world shifted sideways, and I wasn’t standing anymore.
I was falling.
Not down. Not up. Just... away.
The reflections blurred past me, faster and faster, each one a flash of a life that wasn’t mine. A girl staring at a lake, a man screaming in a hospital room, a child wandering a parking lot alone.
Then everything stopped.
I was standing in a bedroom. My bedroom.
It looked the same, smelled the same — but something was wrong. The air felt heavy, like the room was holding its breath.
I turned toward the mirror by the closet.
He was there.
The boy who stole my face. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His head tilted slowly to the side, his eyes dark and hollow.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low, almost sad.
My chest tightened. “This is my life. My face.”
He blinked — a second too late.
“It was,” he said. “But they like me more.”
I took a shaky step forward. My legs felt too light, like they weren’t really mine anymore. “Who are you?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer. He just stared at me for a long moment. Then his face changed — warped — into someone else entirely. A girl. Then an old man. Then a woman with sunken eyes.
Finally, the face settled on something worse.
It was my mom.
She smiled softly. “Go back,” she said, but her voice wasn’t hers. It was his.
I shook my head. “No. I’m not leaving.”
The smile faded. The thing in the mirror leaned closer.
“Then neither is she.”
Behind him, the mirror rippled — and I saw her. My real mom. She was in the hallway, frozen in place like a statue, tears running down her face. Her mouth moved soundlessly.
The boy, still wearing her face, tilted his head again.
“Stay,” he whispered. “She’ll forget you soon enough.”
The glass between us flickered. For a second, I wasn’t looking at a reflection anymore. I was looking through a window.
And I realized — I could break it.
I just didn’t know what would happen to me if I did.