Chapter 3:The Mirror Lied
Mira's mother brought home the antique mirror, she claimed it was a lucky find from a vintage shop downtown. Tall, old-fashioned, and adorned with curling silver edges, it stood like a silent sentinel at the corner of Mira's room.
"It adds elegance," her mother beamed.
Mira forced a smile. "It's... nice."
The mirror had a strange glimmer to it, like it was too clean. Its reflection was crisp, clearer than any mirror she had ever owned—almost too clear, as if it didn't just reflect, but watched.
That night, Mira couldn't sleep.
The house was still. The moonlight leaked through her curtains and hit the mirror directly. It gleamed faintly, even with no light on it. Mira turned away and buried herself in her blanket.
Mira had always lived her life like a performance. At school, she was the bubbly girl everyone loved. Online, she posted cheerful photos, pretended confidence, showed off a life that sparkled. But behind it all, she was tired—drained from pretending to be someone she wasn't. She didn't care for the things she said she loved. She didn't find joy in the friends she laughed with. She wasn't happy. But as long as people believed she was, it gave her a reason to keep the act going.
And so, she smiled.
The first night it happened, she thought she was dreaming.
She had woken up to a faint noise. Like whispering.
When she sat up in bed, her room was normal—except for the mirror.
The girl in the mirror was standing.
Mira wasn't.
Her body was still under the blanket, heart racing, frozen in fear, but her reflection stood calmly by the mirror, smiling down at her.
Not a twisted smile.
Just... hers. Too hers.
She closed her eyes. Counted to three. When she looked again, her reflection matched her.
Must've been a dream.
But the mirror began acting stranger every night.
Sometimes her reflection lagged a second behind.
Sometimes it smiled when she wasn't smiling.
Other times, she would see bruises on her reflection's skin that weren't on hers. Red fingertips. Scratch marks.
Once, she saw her reflection whisper something.
She couldn't hear it.
But she understood it.
"Liar."
She began losing sleep.
In the days that followed, her cracks started to show. She stumbled over her words at school. She forgot to laugh at the right times. Her posts lost their color. The praise she craved—the approval, the likes, the validation—started to fade.
She spent more time in her room. More time watching the mirror.
The reflection seemed... to be watching back. Sometimes, it looked tired when she felt fine. Other times, it looked... disgusted. Disappointed.
It was like it knew.
Knew she was fake. Knew she was empty.
"You're nothing but a shell," it said one night, the reflection speaking while Mira sat still.
She screamed.
Her mother ran in. "What's going on?"
"The mirror," Mira gasped. "It—it talks—"
Her mother stared at her. There was no sound. No movement. The mirror was quiet.
"Maybe you should sleep," her mom said, worried.
Mira didn't argue.
But sleep didn't help.
Each night, the mirror tore her down more.
"No one loves the real you."
"You built a life on lies."
"You don't even know who you are."
The reflection began to change. Its eyes hollowed. Its skin grew pale. Its mouth curled cruelly.
But it was always her.
A version of her that never lied. Never wore masks.
The mirror showed her truth. And the truth was terrifying.
She began to scratch at her skin. As if peeling off the fake layers.
Her mother begged her to go outside. To see her friends. But Mira refused.
"I don't want them to see me."
Because who was she? Who really was Mira, if not the carefully curated persona she had crafted?
The mirror knew.
And every night, it reminded her.
Then one night, she snapped.
The reflection smirked, eyes wide with judgment.
"You deserve nothing."
"You're just pretending to be alive."
Screaming, Mira picked up the stool by her desk and hurled it toward the mirror.
Glass shattered.
Shards exploded across the floor.
The reflection broke into pieces.
It was over.
She collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
And slowly, she felt free.
The next weeks were like spring.
Mira began to smile for real. Not for show.
She stopped pretending. She said what she felt, wore what she liked, didn't care if others disapproved.
She even laughed. Genuine laughter that came from the gut.
She had a few friends now, fewer than before—but they knew the real her.
She started painting again. Reading. Living.
The mirror was gone. Thrown out, shattered and buried in the trash. Its curse broken.
Or so she believed.
"Mira?"
Her mother's voice cut through the fog.
She blinked.
Her brush hovered over a canvas that had no paint.
Her knees were tucked up to her chest.
She hadn't moved in hours.
The room was dark. Cold.
The mirror stood, unbroken, right where it always had.
Her reflection stared back—motionless.
Unblinking.
Her mother entered, placed a tray of food on the floor.
"You haven't eaten."
No response.
"Mira," her mother's voice broke slightly. "It's been weeks."
Still nothing.
Her mother left the room quietly.
Inside Mira's mind, everything was golden.
She was happy.
Her life was bright.
The mirror was gone.
She was free.
She was healed.
She had friends who loved her for her.
She had found herself.
She was... better.
But none of it was real.
Not the laughter.
Not the sun.
Not the new friends.
Not the freedom.
She never threw the mirror.
She never escaped.
That night, when the glass cracked in her mind, it did not shatter outside.
She had dropped the stool.
Fell to the floor.
And from that moment, never truly woke up.
She remained there—each day sitting in her room, eyes blank, mouth twitching with faint smiles.
In her head, she was free.
In reality, she was lost.
Her mother stopped trying after a while.
Doctors came and went.
Medications were suggested.
But nothing brought Mira back.
The mirror never stopped watching.
Sometimes, late at night, her reflection would move first.
Sometimes, it would press its palm against the inside of the glass, like it wanted to get out.
And sometimes—just sometimes—its mouth would move.
"Happy now?"
THE END