The mirror in my hallway is broken

I don’t know where to start, but the mirror in my hallway is broken.

When I say “broken” I don’t mean cracked, or falling apart—I mean it’s not working correctly. I am familiar with mirrors. I’ve used them to varying degrees of success in the past, but this one does not work. And it’s getting worse.

Let me back up.

My apartment has a small hallway that leads to the front door. Wanting to fill the space, I bought a slightly overpriced mirror to hang above a small credenza (or whatever you call those not-quite-tables-not-quite-cabinet things) that holds a bowl I usually drop my keys into. The mirror was more of an aesthetic purchase than anything, but it’s been occasionally useful for last-minute checks on my way out.

A few weeks ago, I was preparing for an interview and obsessing over my suit and tie. The tie alone took forty minutes and three YouTube videos. I checked my outfit in just about every reflective surface I could find—bathroom mirror, the toaster, even the kitchen window. That obsession didn’t stop on my way out the door. As I passed the hallway mirror, I stopped to adjust my tie one last time.

I snugged the knot against my collar, adjusting it side to side, and saw my reflection give it a final, satisfied tug. A proud expression crossed his face while a confused one settled over mine. My hands still held the knot against my collar—his were already moving away, reaching for the keys in the bowl. I slowly relaxed my fingers as my reflection turned toward the door and began to walk off, and I found myself glancing back at my tie, straightening it before reaching for the handle. My heart was racing by the time my hand settled on the handle. I paused there, taking a few slow breaths.

Nerves, I convinced myself. It had to be nerves. This interview was important—the whole reason I moved here. It must have been the pressure. So I brushed it off and rode the bus.

I got the job (thank God), and that was all I could think about on the ride home. When I opened the door to my apartment, it seemed brighter—like I could actually afford it now.

As I walked down the hall, I caught the mirror out of the corner of my eye. My reflection was already at the credenza, tossing his keys into the bowl.

As I came up on the edge of the mirror, I watched him step out the other side a few feet ahead of me.

I dropped my keys into the bowl a second later, only then realizing my footsteps were hitting the floor a little harder than usual. I was walking faster—trying to catch up. I don’t really know why I sped up. It just felt like the right thing to do.

The next thing I knew, I was stopped at the end of the hallway, looking back at the mirror. Somewhere between concerned and confused, leaning more toward the second, my phone rang. I saw my face reflected in the glass screen, wearing that exact combination of expressions. I turned my attention to the call—my sister, calling to congratulate me on the new job.

After the call, I washed my face in the bathroom. Nothing odd about that mirror. For a moment, everything lined up again. Our movements were in sync. I looked as exhausted as I felt. I called it a night, ready to start my new job in the morning.

I woke up late the next day. Rushing to get ready, I ran out the door. I was moving so fast I don’t remember checking the mirror at all. Eight hours of onboarding later, I came home and checked it.

My keys slipped from my hand and hit the floor.

The mirror stared back at me—empty.

I started checking it from every angle I could think of. Some of them twice. The hallway was there. The lights were on. Everything looked correct.

The only thing missing was me.

I’ve lost my mind, I thought as I stepped away from the frame. That’s the only rational explanation. I’ve had some kind of psychotic break from the stress of moving here, and I’ve lost my damned mind.

But people who lose their mind don’t know it—do they?

That doesn’t make sense.

I rushed to the bathroom mirror. The level of panic on my face shocked me a little, but that did make sense. The night sky turned the kitchen window into a perfect mirror. That checked out too. I downed a glass of water, my face bending around the inside of the cup—distorted, but at least it was there.

I leaned against the counter, trying to slow my breathing.

The mirror is broken.

Dumb as that sounds, that’s the conclusion I’d come to. For whatever reason, it just… stopped working.

And that’s what I told myself for the next two weeks. It became easier to rationalize as the days went by. Every reflection I caught felt like another point in the “not crazy” column. Eventually, I stopped checking the hallway mirror entirely. It was just there to take up space. No sense getting worked up over it when every other mirror worked.

It faded into the routine. No more worth thinking about than the bus map at the stop outside. I knew it could change—given how old it is, it probably should—but I didn’t need it to. Plus, some (most) mornings, I don’t really feel like being reminded that time only goes one way.

I guess it didn’t matter that I wasn’t paying attention.

Time kept going. 

And this morning, the mirror started working again.

I’d stopped looking at it completely. It had turned into muscle memory—grab the keys and go. But today something caught in my peripheral vision. My chest tightened before I even registered it. I exhaled sharply, only then realizing I’d been holding my breath.

I was going to have to look.

And as much as I wish he wasn’t, there he was—on his way in as I was on my way out.

Same gray button-up. Same khakis. Both ruined. A boot print stamped just below his rib cage. His shirt was torn, grease and dirt streaked across the fabric. He was leaning against the credenza, staring straight ahead. One eye was purple and swollen shut. The other stared forward. What wasn’t scraped or bruised looked older.

My eyes met his. Mine to his, not his to mine. There was no recognition on his side of the glass.

It was—like overlap, I guess.

He lifted a hand and wiped his bad eye. A tear cut through a thin line of blood. Then he gently inspected the damage, pressing lightly against the wounds with his fingers.

I looked down just to look away. When I glanced back, we had both bowed our heads. At least I had. It looked like something similar for him.

As we lifted our heads, our eyes met again. They stayed locked as we stood up straight.

We paused, then went our separate ways—him deeper into the apartment, me out the door.

I walked out, but something about it came with me. Somehow the empty mirror was easier.

That was maybe 20 minutes ago. I’m on the bus now. My chest still feels tight. I’m trying to stay busy until I get to work, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep checking my reflection in the window, in the passing cars as they go by. They’re probably fine.

I should stop.

But I’m not sure that last one was.

What happened to—him?

I don’t know if it works like that. Does it?

Every time the brakes tap it feels too close. Like we’re about to hit something.

It feels like everything’s waiting.

On me?

For me to get off the bus?

I’m just on edge. It’s not that. They’re not staring.

They are though. These two guys behind me haven’t stopped staring since I got on. I can hear them talking under their breath to each other. Maybe it’s nothing.

But what if it isn’t?