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I started talking to myself when I was seven. My therapist said it was normal—a coping mechanism for loneliness. What she didn't know, what nobody knew, was that somewhere along the way, something started answering.

It began as an echo. My voice, but delayed by half a second. Then the delay grew longer. Then the words changed. And last night, for the first time in thirty years, the voice said something I hadn't thought first.

Let me explain.

I live alone in my grandmother's old house—the one she left me when she passed. It's a crooked Victorian thing on the edge of town, all creaking floorboards and windows that rattle even when there's no wind. I moved in six months ago, after my divorce. The silence here is absolute. No neighbors for half a mile. No traffic. Just the house settling into its bones and my own voice bouncing off the walls.

I talk to myself constantly. Always have. "Where did I put my keys?" "What should I make for dinner?" "Don't forget to call the electrician." Mundane things. Necessary things. The sound of my own voice keeps me company.

But three weeks ago, I noticed something strange.

I was in the kitchen, making tea, and I muttered, "I should really fix that dripping faucet."

And from somewhere behind me—from the hallway, maybe, or the stairs—I heard: "Yes, you should."

My voice. Exactly my voice. But I hadn't said it.

I stood frozen, the kettle screaming in my hand. The house was silent. I told myself it was an echo, a trick of the old walls. I told myself I was tired.

I didn't sleep that night.

The next day, I tested it. I stood in the living room and said, clearly and deliberately: "Hello?"

Nothing.

"Is anyone there?"

Silence.

I laughed at myself. Paranoid. Ridiculous. I went about my day, and by evening I'd almost convinced myself I'd imagined the whole thing.

Then, as I was brushing my teeth before bed, I mumbled through the toothpaste: "God, I look terrible."

And from the bedroom—my empty bedroom with the door half-open—came my own voice: "You really do."

I spat into the sink and didn't move for ten minutes.

After that, I stopped talking out loud. Completely. For two weeks, I existed in perfect silence. I texted instead of calling. I kept the TV on mute with subtitles. I bit my tongue when I stubbed my toe, swallowed every curse and complaint.

The silence was unbearable, but the alternative was worse.

Then last night happened.

I was lying in bed, wide awake at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling. I hadn't spoken a word in fourteen days. My throat ached with the effort of keeping quiet. The house groaned around me, old wood shifting in the cold.

And then, from the corner of my room—the corner where Grandmother's antique mirror stands, the one I've covered with a sheet because I can't bear to look at my reflection in the dark—I heard my voice.

"You can't ignore me forever, you know."

I sat up so fast I nearly fell out of bed. My heart was slamming against my ribs. The sheet over the mirror hadn't moved. The room was empty.

"W-who's there?" I whispered.

"You know who," my voice answered. It was coming from everywhere now—from the walls, the floor, the space behind my eyes. "You've always known."

"I don't—I don't understand."

"Yes, you do." There was something almost sad in the way it said that. Patient, like a teacher explaining something to a slow child. "You started talking to yourself when you were seven. Do you remember why?"

I did remember. I remembered the loneliness, the empty house, my parents always working. I remembered inventing a friend—an imaginary friend who lived in the mirror in my bedroom and talked to me when no one else would.

I remembered the day my mother heard me talking and asked who I was speaking to.

"My reflection," I'd told her.

She'd laughed. "Your reflection can't talk back, sweetheart."

But it did. It always did.

"You forgot about me," the voice said now. "You grew up and you forgot. But I've been here the whole time. Listening. Waiting. Learning to be you."

The sheet on the mirror fluttered, though there was no breeze.

"Learning... to be me?"

"You gave me your voice when you were seven. Your thoughts when you were twelve. Your fears when you were twenty." The voice was closer now, intimate, like it was speaking directly into my ear. "And now, after all these years, you've given me enough to finally step out of the glass."

The sheet began to slide off the mirror. Slowly. Inch by inch.

"Don't you want to meet yourself?" my voice asked. "Don't you want to see what you've made?"

I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But my body wouldn't move. I could only watch as the sheet pooled on the floor and the mirror caught the moonlight.

At first, I saw only my reflection—pale, terrified, sitting up in bed with the covers clutched to my chest.

Then my reflection smiled.

And I wasn't smiling.

"It's been so long," my reflection said, its lips moving while mine stayed frozen. "I've missed talking face to face."

It raised its hand—I didn't raise mine—and pressed its palm flat against the glass from the inside.

"The thing about mirrors," it said, "is that there's always another side. And I've been on the wrong one for thirty years."

The glass began to ripple like water.

I found my voice then. I screamed and threw myself out of bed, stumbling for the door. I didn't look back. I couldn't look back.

I ran out of the house in my pajamas, got in my car, and drove. I haven't been back.

I'm writing this from a motel room sixty miles away. The mirror in the bathroom is covered with towels. The TV is on, sound muted, casting flickering shadows across the walls. I haven't slept.

Because here's the thing that's keeping me awake:

Before I ran, in that split second before I turned away from the mirror, I saw my reflection's face clearly in the moonlight.

And it looked more like me than I do.

It looked healthy. Rested. Happy.

It looked like someone who hadn't spent thirty years slowly giving pieces of themselves away.

I keep catching myself muttering under my breath—old habits die hard. But now, every time I speak, I listen carefully for the echo.

So far, nothing has answered.

But I've started noticing something else. Something worse.

I look in the mirror here at the motel—I had to, just once, to check—and my reflection moves exactly when I do. Perfectly synchronized. Normal.

Except.

Except sometimes, just for a fraction of a second, I catch it blinking when I haven't blinked.

And I'm starting to wonder: if my reflection learned to be me, learned to walk and talk and smile like me...

Then who exactly drove away from that house last night?

Who is sitting in this motel room, writing these words?

I'm afraid to check. I'm afraid to look too closely at my own hands, my own face.

Because what if I'm the one who's been in the mirror all along?

What if I finally got out—and I just don't remember which side I started on?