A Face in the Mirror

The sun was setting behind the city’s skyline, casting long shadows over the bustling streets. Khasha stepped off the bus, her arms heavy with grocery bags. Her feet ached, a blister forming on her heel, but she was glad to be home — or nearly there. The familiar hum of the neighborhood welcomed her as she walked down the street, comforted by the routine she had followed for years.

As she passed the corner market, Maynard, the owner, waved. “Same time tomorrow, Khasha?”

“Maybe earlier,” she called back, adjusting her bags. “Have a good night, Maynard.”

Her apartment building sat nestled between an old laundromat and a tiny coffee shop, always empty no matter the time of day. But as she approached the final block, her steps slowed, a strange pull halting her movement. Across the street, under the awning of a small bookstore, stood a man.

He wasn’t doing anything remarkable — just standing there, looking down at his phone — but something about him gripped her. A cold shiver crawled up her spine. His dark hair was cut close, and a leather jacket clung to his frame, odd for such a warm evening. But it wasn’t his clothes or his posture that rooted her to the spot. It was his face.

She knew that face.

Her mind raced, flipping through years of memories. Was it school? An old workplace? The face lingered in her mind, blurred, like something glimpsed from a dream that slips away in daylight. The more she searched her memories, the more elusive it became. And then, as if sensing her thoughts, he looked up. His eyes locked on hers.

Recognition flickered in his gaze. Not the casual acknowledgment of a passing stranger — no, this was something deeper. His stare held something unsettling, like he had been waiting for her. A knowing.

Her heart thundered, instinct urging her to move. She hurried the last few steps to her building, hands trembling as she fumbled with her keys. She didn’t dare look back, but she could feel his eyes on her, the weight of his gaze as if he could see right through the walls. Once inside, she slammed the door, her breath coming fast.

Setting the groceries down, she forced herself to peek through the blinds. He was still there. Watching.

Khasha closed the blinds, her pulse racing. Her rational mind fought against the flood of fear. It was just a coincidence. Maybe he thought he recognized her too. But that didn’t explain the pull she felt, the way her gut twisted with something close to dread.

She tried to distract herself with the usual evening routine, but the man lingered in her thoughts. His face haunted her, hovering on the edge of her mind like a half-forgotten memory. Later that night, when sleep wouldn’t come, she reached for her laptop. A quick search would ease her nerves, she told herself, though she had no idea what she was looking for.

She typed in random phrases, descriptions of him, but nothing matched. No trace of him, no familiar connection. Frustrated, she shut the laptop. This was ridiculous — she was grasping at shadows.

By the time she crawled into bed, Khasha had convinced herself it was nothing. She’d never see him again. And tomorrow, this unease would fade.

((((

The next day passed in a blur of emails and meetings, her mind distant. When evening came, she hesitated at the door. The memory of the man lingered, casting a shadow over her usual walk. But she couldn’t let fear dictate her life. She grabbed her coat and stepped outside, determined to shake off the unease.

As she made her way through the park, she let the city’s sounds wash over her — the chatter of passersby, the distant hum of traffic. She was halfway down the path when she saw him again.

He stood ahead of her, closer this time. The leather jacket, the dark hair — it was unmistakable. Her breath hitched. Twice was no coincidence.

Khasha slowed, torn between retreating and moving forward. Something stronger than curiosity pulled her toward him. She needed to understand why he seemed so familiar, why her gut twisted with each passing second.

She approached cautiously, her pulse thrumming in her ears. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice tight with tension.

He turned, and when their eyes met, it was like looking into her own reflection. Not in appearance — they were clearly different — but in the way his gaze mirrored her confusion, her unspoken questions. He studied her, his brow furrowed as if trying to solve a riddle only he could understand.

“I... I'm sorry,” Khasha stammered. “Do we know each other?”

The man’s lips parted, his gaze softening. “I’ve been wondering the same thing,” he said, his voice low, steady. “You look... familiar.”

“I saw you yesterday, by the bookstore. It’s been bothering me ever since.”

He nodded slowly. “I thought I imagined it. But no… You were there.”

A charged silence fell between them. The air seemed to thicken, as though the world had paused around them. And then, he said something that made her stomach drop.

“You live in the building with the green door, don’t you?”

Khasha froze. She hadn’t told him that.

“How — how did you know?”

His eyes flickered, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice laced with uncertainty. “I just... I just knew.”

A chill crept up her spine. Her mind scrambled for a logical explanation, but none came. “Do you live around here?” she asked, needing to fill the heavy silence.

He shook his head. “No. I just moved to the city last week. But I’ve never been in this neighborhood before.”

A sense of unease settled in her chest. How could he know where she lived if he had just arrived? Her pulse quickened, but before she could speak, he extended his hand.

“I’m Jordan.”

“Khasha.” She took his hand, and the moment their fingers touched, a strange calm settled over her, like a puzzle piece snapping into place. The familiarity between them was undeniable, yet impossible to explain.

Jordan’s gaze searched hers, his next words barely a whisper. “Do you ever feel like... you’ve met someone before, but can’t remember when? Like you’ve shared something with them that’s... lost?”

Khasha swallowed hard, her throat dry. She nodded, unable to form words.

“Do you think it’s possible,” he asked, eyes dark and serious, “that we knew each other in another life?”

Khasha wanted to laugh it off, too, but she couldn’t. Instead, she nodded slowly. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re just meant to know each other now.”

Jordan smiled, a small, sad smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe.”

They stood there for a moment longer, two strangers — yet not strangers — connected by something unseen, something neither could explain. The world moved on around them, people passed by, oblivious to the quiet, impossible reunion happening in the middle of the park.

Finally, Khasha broke the silence. “Do you want to get coffee?”

Jordan looked at her, and for a split second, something flashed in his eyes — something like hope, or relief. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’d like that.”

They walked side by side toward the edge of the park, leaving behind the unspoken questions and eerie familiarity for now. But both of them knew, deep down, that their paths had crossed before — and would cross again.