You Blinked First

It was the eyes that got me. Deep brown, glossy, and locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The stray dog had been sitting outside the coffee shop all afternoon, tail wagging whenever someone passed, but no one seemed to pay it any mind.

I made the mistake of meeting its gaze.

That was all it took.

I sighed, crouching down. “You lost, buddy?”

No collar. No tags. Just shaggy black fur, lean ribs, and those unsettling focused eyes.

The dog didn’t move as I scratched behind its ears. Just sat there, staring, unblinking. I laughed nervously. “Alright, fine. But if you’re a serial killer in disguise, I’m gonna be really mad.”

The moment I stood up to leave, it followed.

All the way home.

At first, it acted like any normal dog—circling my apartment, sniffing the corners, curling up on the floor. But then I noticed.

It never blinked.

Not once.

Even when I flicked the lights on and off. Even when I waved my hand in front of its face. Even when I deliberately held its gaze for an awkward, too-long moment.

No blinking.

By midnight, I was on edge. The dog sat at the foot of my bed, staring at me in the dark, its head perfectly still.

I turned over, heart pounding. Go to sleep. Ignore it.

At some point, I must’ve drifted off.

But I woke up to a sound.

A slow, deliberate click. Like nails tapping against wood.

I cracked one eye open. The dog was still there—but now, it was sitting closer. Much closer.

Right next to my bed.

Staring.

My chest tightened. Something was… wrong.

Its mouth was slightly open now, just enough for me to see rows of sharp, human-like teeth.

And then, in a voice that did not belong to any dog, it whispered—

“You blinked first.”

I froze. My breath caught in my throat.

I hadn’t spoken.

I hadn’t moved.

But the voice—that horrible, rasping voice—had come from the dog.

My instincts screamed at me to run, but I couldn’t. My body was locked in place, every nerve frayed, every muscle frozen in terror. The dog—or whatever it was—tilted its head, ever so slightly, its human-like teeth still barely visible between parted lips.

Then, slowly, it stood up.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Its claws clicked against the wooden floor as it took a step closer.

I wanted to scream. Wanted to bolt. But my body wouldn’t listen.

“I win,” it whispered again, amusement curling around the edges of its voice.

And then—

It blinked.

A slow, deliberate blink.

The moment its eyes shut, the room around me shifted. Walls stretched, shadows thickened, the air grew heavy with the scent of something old, something decayed.

The dog’s eyes opened again.

But they weren’t eyes anymore.

They were voids.

Endless, gaping pits of darkness, swirling like something alive. And as I stared into them, I felt something pull at me—dragging me forward, yanking me toward whatever was inside.

I fought it. I tried to close my own eyes, but it was too late.

The world around me unraveled.

The last thing I heard before everything went black was that voice—soft, satisfied, whispering in my ear.

“Now it’s your turn.”

Falling.

I was falling, but not through air. It felt like I was sinking through something thick, like ink or tar, a darkness that clung to my skin and filled my lungs. I tried to scream, but my voice was swallowed whole.

Then—impact.

I hit the ground, hard. The breath shot from my lungs, and for a moment, all I could do was lie there, dazed. The floor beneath me was smooth, cold, and—was it breathing?

I pushed myself up, my hands trembling.

I wasn’t in my apartment anymore.

The walls around me pulsed like veins under skin, shifting as if alive. The air carried a sickly-sweet rot, and in the distance, I heard something drip, drip, drip, like water leaking from a pipe. But there were no pipes here. No doors. No windows. Just… darkness stretching endlessly.

And then, I heard it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Claws clicking against the ground.

I spun around.

The dog was there, sitting a few feet away, watching me. Its body was the same—shaggy black fur, lean frame—but its eyes…

They weren’t voids anymore.

They were mine.

My own eyes.

Panic clawed at my throat. I scrambled backward, but the floor beneath me rippled, holding me in place. The dog—the thing—tilted its head.

And then it spoke.

But it didn’t just speak.

It spoke with my voice.

“You blinked first.”

Something moved behind it—shadows writhing, shifting, taking shape. A figure began to emerge from the dark, tall and impossibly thin, its limbs stretched just a little too long, its fingers tipped with claw-like nails. Its face… it had my face.

It smiled, showing those same rows of sharp, too-human teeth.

“Don’t worry,” it said, still using my voice. “I’ll take good care of your life.”

The thing reached down, gently scratching the dog’s ears. The dog let out a slow, rumbling growl—but it wasn’t the dog anymore.

It was me.

And I?

I was just another stray.

Trapped.

Watching.

Waiting.

For the next one to blink.

No.

No, this wasn’t happening.

I pressed my hands to my face, feeling—no, hoping—that my skin was still my own. But the sensation was off. My fingers felt duller, clumsier. My breath came out in short, panicked puffs, and when I turned to look at my hands—

They weren’t hands.

They were paws.

Shaggy black fur. Claws where my nails should be. A tail swishing behind me, moving in sync with the terror rising in my gut.

I stumbled backward, heart hammering in my chest—no, not my chest anymore.

It was in its chest now.

Because that thing—that copy of me—was already turning, stretching its limbs, rolling my shoulders as if getting comfortable inside my stolen body. It flexed its fingers—my fingers—before adjusting its posture, testing its new form like it had worn it a thousand times before.

Then, it looked at me.

And smiled.

“Fits perfectly.”

I lunged at it, snarling before I even realized I could. A deep, guttural growl tore from my throat as I leapt—too fast, too strong, too wild. But it just stepped back, laughing, watching me flail uselessly as my new body betrayed me.

I crashed to the ground, breath ragged, vision swimming. The thing crouched beside me, tilting its head in that too-familiar way.

“You’ll get used to it,” it said, reaching down to scratch my ears. I recoiled from its touch, but the sensation sent an involuntary shudder through me.

No. No, no, no.

I opened my mouth to scream, to beg, to demand my body back—but all that came out was a whimper.

A dog’s whimper.

I was trapped.

The thing in my body straightened up, rolling its neck as if shedding the last remnants of its old self. Then, it turned and walked away—just like that.

Like I had never existed.

I scrambled to my feet, chasing after it, but my paws skidded uselessly against the shifting floor. The world around me flickered, twisting into something I couldn’t comprehend, and then—

The streetlamp.

I was back.

The same coffee shop. The same dimly lit street.

Only this time, I wasn’t me.

I was the stray.

I tried to call out, to scream, to beg someone to see me—but all that came out was a desperate bark. People walked past, glancing at me without a second thought.

No one saw me.

No one knew.

And then, as if pulled by an unseen force, my head turned on its own. My gaze locked onto a stranger stepping out of the coffee shop, stretching after a long day.

And suddenly, I understood.

I had to wait.

Wait for someone to look too long.

Wait for someone to blink first.

Wait for the next one.

***

I don’t know how long I stood there, paws planted on the pavement, staring at the people walking past. Time felt strange in this form—slippery, stretching, and contracting like it had no real meaning.

My body wasn’t mine, but it remembered.

It knew how to sit still, how to wag its tail just enough to seem harmless. How to lure them in.

The first few people ignored me. A woman glanced my way but kept walking, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck. A man on his phone almost tripped over me and muttered an apology without even looking down.

But then—

A teenager stepped out of the coffee shop, stirring sugar into her drink, distracted. She looked up—just for a second—and met my gaze.

That was all I needed.

I felt the pull immediately, the invisible thread tightening between us. My tail wagged. She hesitated, smiling.

“Aww, hey there,” she said, crouching down. “Are you lost?”

I wanted to scream at her to run. To keep walking. To not blink.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I stepped closer, my body moving on its own, every muscle following some ancient, unspoken rule I didn’t understand.

She reached out.

I felt her warmth, her curiosity. She was just like me—not suspicious enough. Not careful enough.

She scratched behind my ears. I almost recoiled at how human it felt.

Then—

She blinked.

And just like that, the world shifted.

It happened so fast.

One moment, I was looking up at her. The next—I was looking down.

I was standing. On two legs. Fingers—my fingers—gripped the cardboard coffee cup. The warmth of human skin, the electric hum of a body that worked.

I was back.

But she—

She was sitting on the ground now.

Shaggy black fur. Deep, glossy brown eyes. Mouth slightly open in a silent, frozen whimper.

The new stray.

She tried to move, but her paws fumbled against the pavement, unsteady. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

I knew that feeling.

I had lived it.

And I had escaped.

For a brief, horrible moment, our eyes met—her panic mirroring the same terror I had felt.

I could have warned her. Could have whispered, “Wait for the next one.”

But I didn’t.

I turned, took a deep breath, and walked away.

After all—

I had won.

But the cycle never ends.