The Mirror Doesn’t Blink

Rue never made a sound.

Even in life, they moved softly—always on the edge of things. In photographs, Rue was the blur in the background. In school plays, the shadow behind the spotlight. And in mirrors… well, they never quite lined up.

It started small. A turn of the head that didn’t match. A blink delayed. Then, the smile they practiced so carefully—gone, replaced with a flat line or a twitching frown. Rue thought it was stress. Then a trick of the light. Then something deeper, harder to name.

By the time Rue vanished, no one was sure they had ever been real at all.

Their flat was left untouched—clean, undisturbed. A half-eaten toast sat on the kitchen counter. Keys on the table. The mirror in the bathroom covered with a sheet.

That was where it began to spread.

Now, Rue isn’t seen in rooms. They’re seen in reflections.

Not always, and not by everyone. But sometimes—just sometimes—you catch a glimpse of them when you expect your own face. Same posture. Same eyes. But… wrong. Their expression doesn’t match. Their shoulders are slumped when yours are straight. Their gaze lingers too long.

Some say Rue appears to those who don’t like what they see in the mirror. Not in a shallow way—not weight or wrinkles or flaws. Deeper. Sadder. Those who feel like their own image doesn’t belong to them. Who see something they don't remember becoming.

You can catch them anywhere: the shimmer of a shop window. A car’s rear-view. The oily black of a turned-off TV. Rue always watches first. And if you break the stare, they vanish.

But if you keep looking… something happens.

Your reflection starts to drift.

At first, it’s subtle. A delayed blink. A tremble in the corner of the eye. But soon, the space between you grows. You raise your hand, and Rue hesitates. You frown, and Rue smiles—a sad, unfamiliar curve of the lips.

People have described it as a sense of being unstitched. Like someone slowly pulling a thread from your identity, unravelling everything you were trying to hold together. Memories you buried come loose. Words you said in anger echo back with Rue’s lips moving in perfect mimicry.

But Rue doesn’t judge. They only show.

And once they’ve shown you who you are—or who you’re not—they fade. The reflection resets. You’re alone again. Yourself again.

A little emptier. A little freer.

Some people claim that if you stare too long, Rue can take your place entirely. That you walk away from the glass, unaware you’ve left something behind. Others think Rue is simply searching—for their own lost identity, scattered across the faces of those who’ve felt the same disconnection. The same ache.

Rue doesn’t appear to everyone. Only those who understand the quiet horror of not recognizing the person in the mirror.

And when they do appear, you’ll know.

Because the mirror won’t blink when you do.