I notice it while applying mascara—my reflection hesitates a fraction too long before mirroring my movements.
The next morning, brushing my teeth, she’s definitely lagging. When I stop, she continues for two more strokes before catching up.
By Thursday, the delay stretches longer. I wave; she waves three seconds later, looking confused. I press my palm to the mirror. She does the same, but her eyes dart anxiously between my hand and my face.
Friday morning, I mouth “hello.” She doesn’t copy me. Instead, her lips form different words: “Help me.”
I step closer, studying her terrified expression—the one I should be wearing but somehow can’t feel.
She mouths again: “You’re not real.”
She picks up my perfume bottle, raises it high.
I try to scream, but only she can make sound.
The glass shatters.
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