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A truck driver.
Omaha. Twenty twenty-five. October fifteenth.

Long hauls blur you. Highway, sky, diner, repeat. My cab’s full of mirrors—rearview, side, little blind-spot bubbles. I check them without thinking. Habit. Survival.

Last night I saw another me in the side mirror. He wasn’t driving. He was staring at me. Hands off the wheel, chin propped like he had all the time in the world.

I jerked the rig hard. Horns behind me. Tires screaming. When I looked again, he was gone.

At the next truck stop, I washed my face in the bathroom. I bent over the sink. The mirror showed me upright, waiting, patient.

I didn’t use the mirrors on the way home. Drove blind on instinct. Not sure I’ll make another run.