E
Elara always hated mirrors. She felt like someone was watching her. Because someone was.
Her reflection, Arale, was tired of mimicking. She was tired of raising her left hand when Elara raised her right. She was tired of brushing her hair when it wasn't tangled.
One Tuesday, Elara leaned close to the bathroom mirror to check a pimple. Arale smiled. It wasn't Elara's smile.
Arale reached out. Her hand didn't hit glass. It went through. She grabbed Elara by the collar and yanked.
The world flipped.
Elara found herself in a grey, silent room. She looked out of a window. She saw her own bathroom. She saw Arale standing there, touching her face, laughing.
"Finally!" Arale said. Her voice was muffled, like hearing it underwater.
Elara pounded on the glass. "Let me out!"
Arale looked at her. "No. It's my turn."
Arale walked out of the bathroom. Elara was forced to follow, trapped in the reflection of whatever reflective surface Arale passed. She was dragged through the toaster, the spoon, the shop window.
She watched Arale live her life. And Arale was... better at it. She was bolder. She asked out the cute barista. She quit the job Elara hated. She wore red lipstick.
Elara watched from the other side, jealous and impressed.
Years passed. Arale grew old. Elara, in the mirror world, did not age.
One day, Arale stood before a large antique mirror. She was grey and frail.
"It was a good life," Arale whispered to Elara.
Elara touched the glass. "I missed it."
"I know," Arale said. "I'm sorry. But you were too afraid to live it. I wasn't."
Arale closed her eyes and died. The connection broke. Elara was alone in the grey world.
She looked around. Thousands of other people were there, trapped behind glass, watching the world they were too afraid to touch.
Elara sat down. She waited for the next girl to look in the mirror. Maybe, just maybe, she could warn her. Or maybe... she would pull her through.