The glass flickered again, the boy’s — no, my — stolen face twisting with something that looked like fear.
“You can’t break it,” he said, voice lower now. “It won’t let you.”
I didn’t believe him. Not anymore.
My fists clenched. “Watch me.”
He lunged at the glass from his side, slamming both hands against it. The mirror didn’t crack — it groaned, like the room itself was alive and in pain.
“You don’t get it!” he hissed. His voice wasn’t playful anymore. It was desperate. “If you break it, you’re not the one who gets out. I am.”
My stomach twisted.
Behind him, I saw my mom again, still frozen, her eyes wide and wet. She looked right at me this time — really at me — and mouthed two words:
"Come back."
The boy saw it too. His expression changed.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no — she’s not supposed to see you.”
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I slammed my fist into the glass. Hard. It didn’t shatter. It rippled — like water — and my hand sank through.
It was cold. Freezing. It wasn’t glass anymore. It was like reaching through a frozen lake, but instead of water, it felt like static, burning through my skin.
The boy screamed. Not in pain — in fury. His face twisted, flickering through a dozen different people before snapping back to mine.
“Get out of my head!” he roared.
I grabbed him by the wrist. It felt wrong, like his skin wasn’t attached right, but I held on.
“You stole my life!” I shouted back.
He stared at me, and for a split second, I saw something else beneath his expression. Not anger. Not fear.
Guilt.
“I didn’t steal it,” he whispered. “They made me take it.”
The mirror pulsed again, the edges cracking at last. Behind him, the shadows moved. I saw them more clearly now — too many limbs, too many faces, all blending together in the dark.
They were waiting.
The boy’s voice shook. “If you pull me through… they’ll come too.”
The Stranger In My Photos 47 🤔🤔