NOTE: You can listen to these stories at my podcast page, via Patreon (paid subscribers get bonus content and early access), and on YouTube. 

A stylist
Los Angeles. Twenty twenty-five. October thirteenth.

People pay me to make them shine. I tease, I spray, I polish until the camera loves them. But lately the mirrors love them too much.

A model came in for a shoot. Tall, perfect bone structure, cheekbones like blades. I turned her toward the mirror. She gasped. Said she looked flawless. Too flawless.

Her reflection winked. She didn’t.

We both froze. The wink wasn’t coy. It was knowing. Intimate. Like a co-conspirator.

She stormed out, muttering about hallucinations. I cleaned up alone. When I glanced at the mirror, my reflection mouthed the same phrase she’d said, syllable for syllable. Voice without sound.

I haven’t booked new clients. I keep the mirrors covered. But the covers slip. And I swear, at night, I hear laughter, muffled, like someone rehearsing jokes without me.