I don't think my reflection copies me anymore
I take the 11:42 train home every night. Same carriage. Same seat. Second car from the back, left side, window seat facing forward.
I know that sounds obsessive, but when you work twelve-hour shifts stocking shelves at a grocery store, routines become comforting. Necessary, even.
The train is usually empty by that point. A few office workers. Teenagers half asleep with headphones on. Sometimes drunk people talking too loudly. Nothing memorable.
At least, not until last Thursday.
That night, the train stopped between stations. Not unusual in itself. The speakers crackled overhead.
“Signal issue ahead. We’ll be moving shortly.”
Everyone groaned a little but mostly ignored it. I checked my phone. 11:58 PM.
That’s when I noticed the woman sitting across from me.
I’m almost certain she hadn’t been there before.
She looked normal at first glance. Mid-thirties maybe. Brown coat. Dark hair. But she was sitting completely motionless. Not “very still.” Completely still. No shifting posture. No blinking. Nothing.
And she was staring directly at me.
I looked away immediately. You know when you accidentally make eye contact with someone on public transport and your brain instantly panics? That feeling.
I pretended to check my phone for a while, but after maybe thirty seconds curiosity got the better of me. I looked up again.
She was still staring.
Same expression. Not angry. Not smiling. Just… focused.
I remember feeling irrationally embarrassed, like maybe I knew her from somewhere and had forgotten.
Then the train lights flickered.
Only for a second.
When they came back on, she was one seat closer.
I actually laughed under my breath because my first thought was: Oh, great. I’m tired enough to hallucinate now.
I looked around the carriage. Nobody else seemed to notice. A man near the doors was asleep with his hood up. Two girls farther down were watching TikToks together. Everything normal.
Except her.
Still staring. Still perfectly still. Now one row closer.
The speaker crackled again. But instead of the conductor, I heard breathing. Heavy breathing. Then static. Then silence.
One of the girls looked up from her phone. “You hear that?” she asked her friend.
Her friend nodded slowly.
That made my stomach tighten.
So it wasn’t just me.
The train lurched forward again. Everyone relaxed a little. I looked back across from me—
—and the woman was gone.
I actually felt relief. Real, physical relief. I even smiled a little at myself. Sleep deprivation. Creepy lighting. Overactive imagination. That’s all it was.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A text message.
DON’T TURN AROUND.
I stared at it for a full ten seconds.
My first thought was that one of my friends was messing with me somehow.
Then another message arrived.
She gets closer when you look at her.
Cold spread through my chest.
I checked the carriage again. Nobody was paying attention to me.
Another text.
You already looked three times.
I stood up immediately.
“Okay,” I said out loud, louder than I meant to. “Who’s doing that?”
A few passengers glanced at me. The hooded guy woke up suddenly. But nobody said anything.
My phone buzzed again.
Don’t make a scene.
I walked quickly into the next carriage.
Empty.
Completely empty.
The lights buzzed overhead. Outside the windows, only darkness. No station lights. No buildings. Just black.
I tried calling the number.
No answer.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Slow. Measured.
I turned instinctively.
Nobody there.
But one of the seats near the center aisle was still rocking slightly. As if someone had just stood up.
My phone buzzed again.
You turned around.
I started feeling genuinely afraid then. Not nervous. Not unsettled. Afraid. The kind where your body suddenly feels too light.
I hurried toward the next carriage, but the connecting door wouldn’t open. I hit the button again.
Nothing.
Then the lights flickered.
And for half a second, I saw her reflection in the window beside me.
Standing directly behind me.
So close her face was almost touching my shoulder.
When the lights returned, there was nothing there.
I spun around anyway.
Empty carriage.
My breathing sounded embarrassingly loud.
The phone buzzed again.
Now she knows you can see her.
I backed away until I hit the locked door.
That’s when the train finally entered a station.
Bright platform lights flooded the carriage. People waiting outside. Normality.
I almost cried from relief.
The doors opened.
I stepped onto the platform immediately.
And froze.
Every person standing there was staring at me.
Not casually. Not curiously.
Directly at me.
Perfectly still.
Then, one by one—
they started raising their phones.
All at the same time.
As if taking pictures.
I heard the train doors close behind me.
Then a final message arrived.
She doesn’t ride the train anymore.
Now she rides home with you.
I didn’t go back to my apartment that night. Or the next.
I’m writing this from a motel about forty minutes away. I haven’t slept properly in three days.
Because every reflective surface now takes a second too long to match my movements.
Mirrors. Windows. Phone screens.
And last night, for the first time—
my reflection smiled before I did.