The Other Me - Chapter 2

That night, we sat face-to-face on the bedroom floor and talked until morning.

Or rather, he talked while I was forced to listen.

He said he had existed inside mirrors since the day I was born.

Whatever I did, he did.

When I cried, he cried. When I laughed, he laughed.

At first, he had no consciousness of his own. He was nothing more than a reflection.

But as I slowly grew older, my emotions became more complex and my imagination grew increasingly untethered.

The dark thoughts I suppressed deep inside and dared not voice, the loneliness and desire that bred in the dead of night—all of them fed him, little by little.

He began to develop thoughts of his own.

He began to find mimicking my movements unbearably dull.

He began to envy me.

He envied my ability to eat, to sleep, to touch the world, while he could only remain trapped behind a smooth pane of glass.

Then one day, he discovered he could deviate slightly from my movements.

If I raised my left hand, for example, he could wait half a second before raising his.

Later, he discovered that when I was not looking in a mirror, he could briefly leave its surface and move around in that mirrored house.

He placed the toothbrush from the mirror world beside my sink.

That was where the extra one had come from.

In the depths of night, while I slept, he emerged from the mirror and stood beside my bed, watching me for a very, very long time.

The tune I heard from the bathroom was the first one he had learned—the one I liked to hum most when I showered.

He yearned for a physical body. He yearned to touch me.

That desire grew stronger and stronger until tonight, when he finally succeeded.

He stepped all the way out of the mirror.

Listening to his account felt like listening to the most absurd story imaginable.

But the living, breathing man before me, identical to me in every way, left me no choice but to believe him.

Dawn was near by the time he finished.

“So what are you planning to do now?” I asked hoarsely, looking at him.

He tilted his head and thought for a moment.

“First, I want a hot shower. The water inside the mirror is always cold.”

“Then I want a real breakfast.”

“And after that, I’m going to help you finish that awful novel of yours.”

I stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

He gave me a look of disdain.

“You’ve nearly written your protagonist to death. The logic is a complete mess.”

“As your dark side, I know better than you how to create a compelling villain.”

With that, he stood and stretched.

Morning light streamed through a gap in the curtains and gilded him in gold.

He no longer looked quite so eerie. Instead, there was something indescribably… real about him.

“All right, I’m going to shower. I think there are still eggs and bacon in the fridge. Do you want your eggs fried or scrambled?”

He spoke as he headed naturally toward the bathroom, as though he were the true owner of this home.

I sat on the cold floor, staring at his back, my mind completely shut down.

This was not unfolding like any horror movie scenario I had imagined.

Over the days that followed, I settled into a living arrangement that could only be called bizarre.

He gave himself the name “Yan.”

He said that because he was Jiang Xun’s other half, calling himself “Jiang Yan” made perfect sense.

I did not argue. I no longer had the energy.

Yan really did begin to “live,” just as he had said he would.

He would spend ages in the bathroom, savoring the sensation of hot water rushing over his body.

He would cook every ingredient in my refrigerator, then express profound contempt for my culinary skills.

He would commandeer my sofa, wrap himself in my blanket, and watch my favorite old movies, only to spoil the endings with perfect timing when I was halfway through.

As for me, my initial terror gave way to numbness, and then to… a kind of habit I could not put into words.

I tried calling the police, but when it came time to speak, I had no idea what I could possibly say.

“Hello, police? There’s another me in my house. He climbed out of the mirror.”

They would either lock me up as a madman or charge me with filing a false report.

I also tried to run.

Once, while he was napping, I quietly packed a suitcase and prepared to slip away.

But the instant I opened the door, I found him leaning leisurely against the doorframe, smiling at me.

“Where are you going? Aren’t you taking me with you?”

That was when I understood: there was no escape.

As long as anything reflective remained in this world, perhaps he could appear beside me at any time.

What drove me closest to breaking was that he really did begin meddling with my novel.

That afternoon, I sat in front of my computer, staring at a blank document, unable to write a single word.

Yan came over with a cup of coffee and set it beside my hand.

“Still agonizing over that idiot protagonist’s motivation?”

I shot him an irritated glare.

“None of your business.”

He chuckled, dragged over a chair, and sat down next to me.

“Having him oppose the villain for justice and love is far too clichéd.”

“Jiang Xun, deep down, you don’t believe in any of that. Don’t you feel like a hypocrite writing it?”

His words caught me off guard, and an inexplicable anger flared inside me.

“Then how do you think I should write it?”

Yan leaned toward the screen and pointed at my character outline.

“Simple.”

“Let the protagonist turn dark.”

“He wants to fight the villain, doesn’t he? Then have him fight with methods even more despicable and ruthless than the villain’s.”

“Make him exploit people. Betray them. Sacrifice the very people he claims he wants to protect.”

“Let him win in the end, standing atop the ruins of morality as a new and even more terrifying monster.”

“That’s the story you truly want to write deep down, isn’t it?”

His voice was soft, but it struck my heart like a hammer.

I stared blankly at him.

He was right.

This was exactly the idea I had kept buried for so long, too afraid to put it on the page.

I was afraid readers would reject it, afraid my editor would condemn its warped morality.

I was afraid, so I had written my protagonist as a tedious saint.

“You…” My mouth opened, but I did not know what to say.

Yan smiled in satisfaction at my stunned expression.

“Don’t be afraid, Jiang Xun.”

“Write boldly. Put everything you want onto the page.”

“I’ll help you.”

“After all, no one understands all those mad, fascinating ideas in your head better than I do.”