The flash wasn’t supposed to fire yet. It cracked through the air like a small explosion, bleaching everything in front of me. The smell of ozone bit the back of my throat as I stumbled backward, one hand up, blind for a second.
“Elena!” Max shouted from somewhere behind the lights. His voice warped, stretched, like a tape slowing down.
The brightness faded, but the white stayed burned into my vision. The model on the stool froze mid-pose, her glittered face caught between terror and beauty. The overhead lights buzzed. I blinked hard, and the world came back in fragments—tripods, cables, Max’s silhouette.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You okay?” I nodded automatically, though the movement felt late, like my body answered after I did.
The air tasted metallic. My heartbeat had a rhythm of shutter clicks. Someone unplugged the power pack, muttering about blown circuits. I tried to stand; the floor tilted. The reflection on a chrome stand beside me wavered, my head moving a half beat behind my own.
I blinked again. The lag was still there.
I told myself it was just exhaustion. We’d been shooting for twelve hours, all heat and caffeine. The studio smelled of sweat and burning gel filters. I packed up quietly, pretending not to feel the eyes of the others when I passed.
At home, the apartment lights felt cruel. I lived in a small sublet near Koreatown—half storage, half home. The bathroom mirror was lined with LED bulbs, too white, too sharp.
When I leaned close to wash my face, steam softened the glass. For a second it was comforting, like fog erasing me. Then the steam cleared, and I saw her—me—lift a hand a moment later than I did.
I froze. Waited. Lifted my hand again, faster. She followed slower.
Not much, maybe half a second. But enough.
My chest went cold. The hum of the refrigerator in the other room filled the silence. I switched off the bathroom light. The darkness felt honest. I told myself: Sleep, and you’ll wake normal.
Morning didn’t fix anything. Max texted before sunrise: need u back 10am – quick reshoot.
He always typed like that—no punctuation, no apology.
The studio looked exactly the same: backdrop, light stands, chaos pretending to be art. I stood behind the monitor while he tested the strobes. The first flash hit my chest like a punch.
“Still nervous?” he asked. “I’m fine,” I lied.
He grinned. “Good. Hold that energy.”
During setup, I caught my reflection in a glossy black panel used as a fill card. My mirrored self blinked out of sync again—later, smoother, too perfect. I turned away quickly, heart pounding.
When we finally shot, the flash burst again, white swallowing everything. For a moment I couldn’t tell if I was standing or falling.
Afterward, we checked the playback. The model looked radiant. The lighting flawless. Then, in the background, near the glass prop table—something else.
Me. But not exactly.
The posture was mine. The face was mine. But she was smiling, wide and easy, while I was grimacing from the light.
“Pause it,” I said.
Max leaned in, squinting. “What?” “Look at me. Behind her. Look.” He shook his head. “Glare artifact. Chill.”
But when he turned away, I zoomed in, frame by frame. The reflection’s smile came later than mine, as if she waited for permission.
That night, I dreamed in flashes—light popping like gunfire, faces overexposed, laughter reversed. I woke to darkness and the sound of my own pulse.
I tried to record a video to prove it wasn’t real. I held my phone toward the mirror, hit record, waved. On the screen, everything looked normal. But when I slowed it down, there it was again. Two frames. Two smiles. Mine faded first.
I deleted it. Then I emptied the trash folder. Then I still saw her in my head.
The next evening, thunder rolled over the city. I unplugged every lamp, every charger. The apartment looked carved out of shadow. I sat on the bed, knees pulled up, watching lightning paint the walls.
Another flash outside. For an instant the window turned into a mirror.
Someone stood there. My height. My shape. My face. But smiling.
I whispered, “Stop.”
The storm answered with another flash, sharper, closer. In the glass, she leaned nearer. Her lips moved.
At first I thought it was the echo of thunder. But the words came soft, almost tender, almost mine.
“Don’t turn off the light.”
I couldn’t move. The streetlights flickered out, one by one. My reflection stayed even when the room went black.
The hum of the power grid faded. The air thickened, tasting of rain and static. Somewhere below, a transformer snapped.
In the glass, her eyes glowed faintly with what little light was left. She tilted her head—my head—and smiled again, perfectly synchronized.
I tried to smile back. My face didn’t move.
The next flash came from the sky, white and merciless. For a heartbeat, there were two of us in the room.
Then only one.
