They say everyone has a doppelgänger somewhere in the world. Mine found me.
It started on a Tuesday, a nothing sort of day. Overcast. Coffee bitter. Elevator music playing off-key in the office lobby. I was halfway through my third cup of instant sludge when I caught the first glimpse—in a window across the street.
At first, I thought it was my reflection. Same coat. Same walk. Same distracted shuffle. But I turned left into the coffee shop. The reflection kept walking.
I stared at the window.
No one was there.
Just my heart, banging like a war drum.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept hearing creaks in the hallway. The sound of fingernails tapping glass. Three slow taps. A pause. Then again.
I lived on the fifth floor.
The window doesn't open.
Still, I checked. Nothing. But my breath clouded the air like I'd left the window open for hours.
My phone was dead. I didn't remember using it.
When I plugged it in, it buzzed with a single notification: a selfie.
Of me.
Sleeping.
By Wednesday, the sightings became daily. Storefront glass. Train doors. Shadows behind reflections. Always just a second too late to catch. My coworkers started avoiding me. I heard whispers—"he's been acting off," "he smells like metal," "his eyes look wrong."
My boss pulled me aside.
"You've already handed in that report. Why are you submitting it again?"
I hadn't.
But when I opened my email, there it was. Sent at 3:33 a.m. From my address. Word-for-word. Except the subject line was different.
"LET ME OUT."
I laughed it off. Nervous chuckles. Promised better sleep, fewer coffees. But the laugh felt like it belonged to someone else.
It echoed in my ears for hours after.
I started recording myself at night.
The footage showed me sleeping peacefully until 2:57 a.m. Then, without fail, my eyes opened.
Wide. Black. Unblinking.
I sat up. Smiled.
And stared directly into the camera.
Then I whispered:
"He still thinks he's the original."
I watched the video ten times.
Every time, I felt sicker.
Every time, I noticed new details.
The fingernails were too long. The smile didn't fade. The shadow under the bed moved on its own.
I stopped going to work. I locked all the doors. Blocked the windows. I covered mirrors with sheets. My phone stayed off. But I still heard him. Breathing in the dark corners. Mimicking my voice.
Once, I caught him humming.
My mother's lullaby.
She's been dead for years.
I checked the front door security camera one morning. It showed me walking outside at 5:12 a.m. I waved at the camera. Smiled. Held up a sign:
"I'M YOU."
I haven't left the apartment in days.
So who's been using my keys?
I called my sister.
She answered but sounded distant.
"You already called me this morning. You said... you said you fixed it. That the voices were gone. You sounded so happy."
I hadn't spoken to her in months.
She hung up. Texted me seconds later: "Don't call again. You scare me."
I cried for the first time in years. But when I wiped my face, the tears were red.
And my smile wouldn't fade.
By Friday, I found writing on the walls.
Not scrawled. Etched.
Deep gouges in the plaster.
"Who are you when no one's watching?"
"The one who watches is not the one who dreams."
"He walks better in your skin."
I tried scrubbing them off. The letters bled. The wall pulsed.
When I turned off the lights, the writing glowed.
A map.
Leading to the basement.
I shouldn't have gone down there.
The air was too thick. Like syrup and ammonia. The walls were covered in photographs.
Of me.
Sleeping. Eating. Crying.
Standing in the corner.
There were dozens of versions. All subtly wrong. Different scars. Slightly too-wide smiles. Extra fingers. One had no eyes.
And in the center: a full-length mirror.
I hadn't seen myself in days.
I stepped closer.
But it wasn't me.
The reflection blinked first.
Then it grinned.
Raised its hand before I did.
And tapped the glass three times.
I ran.
Locked myself in the bathroom. I could hear footsteps. Whispers. My voice saying things I didn't remember.
"It's easier if you don't fight."
"You never deserved that body anyway."
"You're just a draft. I'm the final version."
I screamed until I lost my voice.
When I opened my eyes, the mirror was fogged.
A message was written in the condensation:
"Tonight."
I made a list of memories only I would know.
My first pet: a goldfish named Lantern.
My fear of deep water.
The scar behind my left ear from climbing a fence at age seven.
I chanted them like prayers. But even as I did, they felt... borrowed. Like lines from a script.
What if I was the copy?
What if he was the original?
Would I even know?
Would he?
I sat on the bathroom floor, clutching the list until my knuckles turned white. Hours passed, or maybe minutes. Time was slipping like water through cracks in my brain. I heard humming again. Closer this time.
A soft knock on the door.
Then another.
"You left the window open," my voice said.
But I hadn't.
I stopped breathing.
The humming was no longer intermittent. It became constant, like background noise threaded into my every thought. I caught myself humming along once. The melody was wrong—not the lullaby anymore. Slower. Meaner. Like it was unraveling something inside me.
I smashed the bathroom mirror. Shards stuck in my fists, red trickling down the sink. But in every jagged piece, I still saw his face. No matter how I turned them, they didn't show mine anymore.
I started writing notes to myself. Little reminders. "You are real." "This is your body." "Don't listen to him."
One morning, I woke up and found them all rewritten in my handwriting:
"You are not real."
"It was never your body."
"He listens to everything."
I threw up. What came out wasn't bile. It was black, tar-like. It moved on its own.
The clock hit 2:57 a.m.
I heard the door creak open. Soft footsteps. Breath in sync with mine.
I stayed in bed. Frozen. Listening.
A shadow crossed the floor. Moved to the side of the bed. I felt the mattress dip.
A voice, my voice, whispered:
"Are you ready?"
I said nothing.
He leaned closer. I felt his breath.
"I'm tired of pretending."
Then, the sound of flesh tearing.
Pressure in my chest. Burning.
He was crawling in.
Or I was crawling out.
My body convulsed. My mind split in two. I saw myself from the ceiling. One version writhing. One smiling. Only one left breathing.
I woke up in the street. Naked. Shivering.
The sun was rising.
People passed by without noticing.
I looked into a store window.
Saw my face.
It smiled back.
But I didn't.
I went home.
The locks had been changed.
Through the window, I saw him—sitting on the couch. Eating cereal. Watching TV. Laughing.
He looked so at ease. Like he belonged.
Maybe he did.
I stood there for hours.
He never looked up.
But as I turned to leave, the TV flickered.
And I heard my own voice, distorted, echoing from inside:
"He's watching."
I live in the basement now. Behind the boiler. In the dark.
He brings me food sometimes. Leaves it at the door. Our door.
He signs the notes: "For me, from you."
I don't know who I am anymore. I don't sleep. I don't dream. He does both.
Sometimes, I hear him whispering to someone.
Maybe he's making another copy.
Maybe I was never real.
But here's what I do know:
He's happier in my life than I ever was.
And maybe that's the real horror.
Maybe he deserves it more.
But tonight...
Tonight, I found the mirror again.
And he was already waiting on the other side.
Smiling.
Saying my name.
Just once.
For now.
And behind him, another shadow moved.
Another version.
Another grin.
There are more of us now.
And the mirror... it's starting to crack.