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A journalist.
New York. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-ninth.

I was writing an article on mass hysteria. That’s what my editor called it—mirrors trending on social feeds, blurry videos, clickbait. I called sources, filed quotes, drafted paragraphs that sounded reasonable.

Then I stayed late in the newsroom. The windows had gone black, city lights bouncing back at me. My reflection stayed behind after I leaned away. Sat there at the desk, typing.

I crept closer. The words on his screen weren’t mine. He was writing about me. Every line a detail I’d never shared—my habits, my failures, things I’d buried.

When I banged the glass, the reflection turned and smiled. Typed faster. And the words appeared on my own screen, letter by letter, even though my hands hovered still.

I shut the laptop. But screens are mirrors, too. And every time I open one, the cursor blinks like a heartbeat, waiting for him to start again.