A

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A student.
Boston. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-third.

Dorm mirrors are cheap. Warped at the edges, the kind that make you look taller, thinner, wrong.

My roommate left hers uncovered. I saw her reflection stand after she’d already walked away. Not a trick. Not a joke. The reflection stood there, waiting.

That night I woke to the sound of glass flexing. The mirror bulged like a lung. A handprint bloomed on the inside, dragging downward. Fingertips smeared. Nails scraped.

My roommate didn’t wake up. Or maybe she did, in there.

I’ve pushed my desk against the mirror. Covered it with posters. Still, I hear the faint squeak of fingers tracing letters I can’t see.