Contemporary

It started on Tuesday. I was crossing the street by the Petal and Bloom Florist Shop, when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in their big display window. Hair was right, face was right, clothes were right, but something was oddly wrong.

It has happened before, but never like this. Times when I have felt good about my appearance- like a good hair day or feeling particularly slim and fit. Only then to catch my reflection in a random window wayward cowlick pointing true north or soft body thoroughly masking the toned gent inside. Tuesday's experience was totally different.

It took me a moment to realize that mirrored me had his hands in his pockets. My hands were swinging freely by my side. As quickly as that sank in, the image morphed and synced to the reality.

Was this a momentary glitch, heat stroke, too much caffeine, overactive imagination? I settled on imagination and continued on with my day, pushing the episode aside.

On Thursday l sat in Frank's barber chair with a hope that the cowlick could get tamed. Facing the mirror, as Frank clipped away, I watched my hand rise up to wipe away a trimmed hair from my nose and give a little scratch. The trouble is both of my hands were resting comfortably on the arms of the barber chair.

I looked at my reflection—hard. I blinked. So did he. His expression matched mine, like it should, but there was something slightly off in the eyes. Too steady. Like he was judging me or something.

Frank made a joke about the Red Sox, I almost missed. I couldn't think of a reply so I forced a laugh, hoping that it was an appropriate response. When I glanced back, the reflection still seemed... alert. Maybe a little more present than it should have been.

I didn’t say anything. I might be having a stroke or an existential break down. How do I explain any of this to my barber without him calling 911 or throwing me out mid-cut?

By Saturday, I was avoiding mirrors entirely. Not out of superstition, but because I didn't feel I could trust what I’d see. I brushed my teeth looking down at the sink, shaved by feel and faith, and turned my face from reflective surfaces like they were hot stoves. It wasn’t just fear. Fear I could manage. This was something quieter and even more insidious. The idea that maybe something in me was slipping.

I kept telling myself it was stress, sleep deprivation, blue light, or caffeine. Yet beneath those flimsy rationalizations there was a scary concern, that maybe, this wasn't imaginary.

As a reality check, I stopped avoiding and started checking every shiny surface for reflections . I didn’t actually want to see the man in the mirror, but I needed to know if he was really there. My thoughts spiraled into loops—was I hallucinating? Would I even know if I was? What’s the protocol for confronting a possibly independent mirror version of yourself—text a friend? Call your doctor?

What unsettled me most wasn’t that I might be seeing things, but the idea that maybe I wasn’t. That maybe there was something real in that alert look, something animate in the way his eyes held mine.

What could he possibly want from me? Worse: suppose he was just waiting for me to figure that out?

I tried again to convince myself it was just stress. I Googled things like “mirror ghosts”, “reflection distortions,” and “do mirrors lie?” The answers were inconclusive and only fueled more unease.

That night, sleep would not come. I stopped restlessly tossing and turning and got up around 2 a.m. to grab a glass of water. Back to avoidance and denial as my plan. I passed the hallway mirror. I kept my eyes forward—resolute.

But I saw it. Peripheral, sure, but no less real. He was standing still. I was walking.

I stopped. He stared. A chill passed over me, not fear or panic exactly, but something close.

My gut reaction was to explain it away again—maybe a trick of the light, over tired, something I ate. But beyond my gut instinct was something harder to shake: a sense that I’d just witnessed a small crack in reality. I didn’t feel like I was going crazy, not in any dramatic way. It was subtler than that. Just enough vague uncertainty to make me doubt my footing. I stood there, staring back, not knowing what else to do. And maybe, somewhere deep down, I was waiting to see what my next move was going to be. Not his. Mine.

I took a step back. He didn't follow. Slowly, he raised a hand and made a gesture at the edge of the mirror. "Are you real", I stuttered? "Who are you? What do you want?"

He remained silent, staring, motionless. Then he leaned in and once more repeated his curious gesture. And suddenly I understood him.

A flash of insight bloomed within me. He’d been watching me all week. Watching me check my phone thirty times an hour. Watching me stand in the kitchen and eat a handful of chocolate chips instead of dinner. Watching me flip through TV channels for hours on end. Watching me open the fridge, stare inside, and then slowly close the door... five times in a row.

As understanding registered within me, he seemed to nod slowly and with a blink, he was suddenly me again. Or I was him. It’s hard to say. He moved when I moved, he sighed when I sighed.

I went to the kitchen and made a proper breakfast. Eggs. Real toast with butter. I sat down at the table to eat.

I didn’t look in a mirror the rest of the day. Didn’t need to.

Sometimes the universe sends signs.

Sometimes, the reflection lies.

But sometimes it tells the truth early—before you’re ready to hear it.

Turns out, it wasn’t him that was out of step.

It was me.

Posted Jul 20, 2025
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5 likes 8 comments

Raz Shacham
21:45 Jul 30, 2025

Really intriguing concept—quietly unsettling in the best way. I loved the shift from fear to reflection, but I’m wondering: what exactly triggered the change at the end? Was it the mirror gesture, the recognition of daily habits, or something else? I feel like I almost caught the turning point, but not quite.

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Dennis Conway
01:17 Jul 31, 2025

I was aiming for a play on the idea of reflection as both a mental process and as a mirror image. Through self reflection one gains insight into oneself. "...he was suddenly me again. Or I was him. It’s hard to say." I'm not sure myself how much credence to lend the mirror image. I think almost catching but not quite might be correct.

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Raz Shacham
03:04 Jul 31, 2025

It’s a magnificent story, beautifully told.

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Dennis Conway
11:43 Jul 31, 2025

Thanks.

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Catherine Duggan
22:39 Jul 29, 2025

Love it!

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Dennis Conway
01:18 Jul 31, 2025

Thank you

Reply

Albert Dussault
16:41 Jul 29, 2025

What an unsettling thing, a bad hair day, the diminishing of self fragmenting into parts we recognize but thought certain we had exiled those many years ago.
Inside that wisdom landscape there is always room for truth....
nice job, Dennis

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Dennis Conway
01:18 Jul 31, 2025

Thank you

Reply

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