I don’t know how long I stayed trapped behind the glass. Time didn’t move the same way. My reflection — his reflection — stared back at me every time I tried to look away.
But today, something changed.
He came back.
He wasn’t alone.
There was a woman with him. The same one from the photo, the one with the blurred face. But now, her face wasn’t blurred — it was mine.
She smiled at him like they’d known each other for years. He smiled back. My smile.
They sat on my couch, in my living room, while I watched from the other side of the mirror. I pounded on the glass, screaming, but no sound came out.
He turned toward me — no, at me. He could see me.
He leaned in close to the mirror, his face inches from mine. His smile didn’t waver.
“She likes me more than she liked you,” he whispered, his voice muffled through the glass.
The woman laughed softly from the couch.
My laugh.
My heart felt like it stopped.
Then he leaned back, tilted his head, and said one last thing before turning away:
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 13