I woke up to knocking on glass.

Three taps. Sharp. Measured. Not wind or tree or dumbass bird.

Naturally, I figured window. I live alone, top floor, so either it was a drunk pigeon or a ghost with bad GPS. But when I turned my head toward the window—nothing. No breeze. No branches. Just the city yawning in the dark.

Then the knocking came again.

This time: tap-tap-tap.

Behind me.

From the mirror.

I froze like a busted DVD. That cheap full-length mirror I bought off Craigslist—$20, pickup only—sat perfectly still across the room, leaning against the wall like it always did. But I swear to every god and demon listening: something was behind it.

I got up, slow. Checked my phone. 3:33 a.m. Of course it was. Witching hour’s favorite punchline. I tiptoed toward the mirror like I was in a Scooby-Doo episode—arms out, feet exaggerating every step. Because if I was going to die, I wanted the ghost to know I had style.

When I got close, I squinted. Nothing.

Just me.

Bedhead, old hoodie, one sock—classic horror protagonist. I leaned in, forehead practically kissing the glass. Then—

TAP TAP TAP

This time from inside. My reflection didn’t move.

You know that moment where your brain tries to crawl out the back of your skull? That. I stumbled backward into a laundry basket and went down like a cartoon banana peel, taking a tangle of dirty clothes and a sad lamp with me.

Lying there, heart sprinting, I looked up at the mirror.

My reflection still hadn’t moved.

I sat up, slow, like I was waiting for a cue.

The reflection blinked.

I did not.

“Oh f—”

My own face in the mirror grinned. Not friendly. Not me. It tilted its head like it was picking which bone to snap first. I jumped up, bolted to the door—and ran straight into it. Locked.

I fumbled the knob like a bad dream, tripped on a sock, and ended up face-first on the floor. Again. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the mirror.

My reflection stepped out.

Like, full body slid through the glass like molasses mixed with nightmare fuel. The thing looked like me but wrong—shadowy at the edges, with a smile too wide and teeth too real.

“Hey buddy,” it said, voice like gravel dragged through a voicemail. “Mind if I crash here? Your side’s a little… cramped.”

Then it sneezed.

I blinked.

So did it.

“Wait,” I said, sitting up on my knees. “You’re… allergic?”

The mirror-me sniffled, rubbed its nose. “Dust mites. Your room’s a dump.”

“Sorry I don’t Windex the portal to Hell.”

It rolled its eyes. “Drama queen.”

I was too stunned to scream. Also, kind of insulted. I may be haunted, but I still have pride.

“So,” it said, flopping onto my bed. “You ever think about what it’s like on my side? Always watching you eat Hot Pockets in your underwear?”

I blinked. “You watch that?”

“Dude. I live in the mirror. I don’t blink unless you do. And I haven’t had a bathroom break since Y2K.”

My horror curdled into existential awkwardness.

“What do you want?” I asked.

It sat up, grinning. “Day off. A swap. Just one. You go in. I stay out.”

“No!”

“C’mon. One day. I’ll feed the cat. Water your plants. Go on that date with Lindsey you keep dodging.”

My eyes narrowed. “You talked to Lindsey?”

“We text.”

“You—!”

Before I could finish, it lunged. I dodged—sort of—and we slammed into the nightstand together. In the wrestling match that followed, I kicked a lamp, got bit on the elbow, and somehow ended up half inside the mirror.

It was cold. Syrup-glass-death cold.

And then—snap. I was in.

Trapped.

I pressed my hands against the inside of the mirror. Watched as my doppelgänger dusted itself off, winked, and strutted out of the room humming the theme to Friends.

Now I’m here.

In the mirror.

Watching myself live my life better than I ever did. He cleaned my room. Fed my cat. Texted my mom. He even started doing yoga.

I hate him.

He comes by every night and taps on the glass.

Three times.

Smiles.

And leaves.

I started knocking back.

One day, I know he’ll slip.

And when he does…

I’m breaking the fucking mirror.

THE END

(or is it?)