I. The Quiet Unraveling
The first time Evan noticed it, he convinced himself it was nothing—a moment of absentmindedness, a slip of attention, one of those strange little hiccups of reality that happened to everyone from time to time.
It was at the coffee shop, the same one he visited every morning, tucked into the corner of an old brick building where the scent of roasted beans clung to the air and the baristas knew most customers by name. He had been standing at the counter, waiting for his drink, when the girl behind the bar slid a cup toward the woman beside him, called out another order, and turned away.
“Hey,” he said, voice clear, steady.
She didn’t react.
“My order? Medium Americano?”
Still nothing.
He drummed his fingers on the countertop, a sharp, deliberate sound against the wood, and the barista jolted, blinking rapidly like someone surfacing from deep water. She turned toward him, her eyes unfocused, something hesitant in the way her gaze landed on his face, as though she wasn’t entirely convinced he was standing there at all.
“Oh. Sorry. I—” she exhaled, shaking her head. “Didn’t see you there.”
Evan frowned, but he took the drink without another word and stepped aside.
An honest mistake. That was all.
But then it happened again.
II. Small, Forgettable Things
At first, it was easy to ignore. People got distracted, they lost focus, they overlooked things. It was normal.
But then, one evening, while crossing the street on his way home, Evan watched as a man walked directly toward him, their paths about to intersect. At the last second, when they should have adjusted their course to avoid collision, the man kept moving, eyes locked straight ahead, forcing Evan to sidestep at the last moment to avoid getting knocked off balance.
He turned to throw an irritated look over his shoulder, maybe even call out to him, but the man didn’t glance back, didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as register that anything had happened.
It wasn’t just strangers, either.
A few days later, he passed a coworker in the grocery store—a guy from accounting, one of those too-loud types who remembered everyone’s name and always had something to say. Evan gave him a nod, expecting a brief, automatic Hey, man in response, but the man’s gaze swept right past him, pausing instead on a woman behind him, who he greeted with a too-big smile and an easy, familiar laugh.
Evan stood there for several seconds, heartbeat too loud in his ears, and then he left his cart in the middle of the aisle and walked out of the store without buying a single thing.
III. The Hollowing Out
Something about the apartment had changed.
The first time he noticed it, he had just stepped through the door, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter, kicking off his shoes, and grabbing a glass from the cabinet. He turned on the tap, let the water run cold before filling his glass, and took a long drink.
It wasn’t until he lowered the glass that he realized it.
The apartment smelled like nothing.
No leftover coffee lingering in the air, no hint of fabric softener clinging to his hoodie, not even the faint, familiar scent of dust that had always settled in the corners of the old place no matter how often he cleaned.
He frowned, lifting the sleeve of his hoodie to his nose, inhaling deeply. Nothing. He crossed the room, tugging open the refrigerator, breathing in—no chill of cold air, no sharp tang of onions or the stale remnants of forgotten leftovers.
The thought settled in the back of his mind, coiled tight and waiting.
Later that night, he made a full plate of food—pan-seared chicken, roasted vegetables, fresh bread—and took the first bite with careful, deliberate focus.
The textures were there. The crisp edges, the soft center, the give of the meat beneath his teeth. But the flavor?
Gone.
He swallowed, the bite sliding down his throat like sand, and sat motionless for several minutes, staring at his plate, unwilling to take another.
IV. Things That Shouldn’t Be
He stopped looking in mirrors.
It wasn’t a conscious decision at first—more of an instinctive avoidance, a flickering discomfort that made his gaze dart away whenever he passed by a reflective surface. But then he began to notice it.
Passing the hallway mirror one morning, he caught a glimpse of something that made his stomach drop.
A delay. Just a fraction of a second, just enough to register in the periphery of his vision before his brain could rationalize it away. But he had felt it. A lag, like an old film reel skipping a frame.
He turned back, staring at his own face, searching for something out of place.
His reflection stared back, perfectly still.
Too still.
His breath caught in his throat. He stepped forward, watching as the man in the glass moved with him, a precise mimicry. He raised a hand. His reflection did the same. He lifted his chin. A perfect copy.
Still, the unease remained.
He hesitated, then parted his lips—
And for a split second, before the world righted itself, his reflection did not.
V. The Last Door
He found the voicemail by accident.
His phone had been untouched for days. He hadn’t been getting calls. Hadn’t been getting anything.
But when he picked it up, the notification was there.
One New Message.
The timestamp was from weeks ago. A number he didn’t recognize.
He pressed play.
A voice crackled through the speaker, warping in and out, barely clinging to existence.
“…can you hear me?”
Static.
“I—” The voice cut out, then back in, lower this time, thick with something unreadable.
“…still here?”
Evan’s stomach turned to ice.
It was his own voice.
The message ended.
The silence that followed was deafening.
VI. The Reflection That Stayed
The apartment was colder now.
Evan sat on the edge of the bed, phone resting limp in his hands, staring blankly at the opposite wall. He thought of the barista who hadn’t seen him. The conversations that passed through him. The way his keys had vanished and reappeared, the scentless air, the flavorless food, the reflection that did not move when it should have.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
The bathroom mirror drew his attention through the open door, catching the dim light of the bedside lamp.
His breath stilled in his throat.
He turned his head slightly—just a fraction.
The mirror did not move.
His reflection sat perfectly still, watching him.
Then, softly, it spoke.
“…Evan?”
The voice was his. But not quite.
His chest tightened, nausea rolling deep in his gut.
The lights flickered. The walls exhaled.
The reflection tilted its head, something like pity in its too-familiar eyes.
“You’re still here?” it asked again.
The bulbs dimmed to nothing. The darkness pressed in.
And as the last trace of light bled out of the room, the reflection smiled.
End.
©Genevieve Mazer, 2025
