The first time I heard it, I was brushing my teeth.
The voice came from the mirror —
not behind it,
not inside it —
from the reflection of my mouth.
It moved before I did.
Just a fraction of a second early.
But enough to feel… wrong.
> "You forgot this one," it said.
The toothbrush dropped from my hand.
The sound it made against the porcelain was too loud,
as if trying to cover what I'd just heard.
---
I didn't sleep that night.
Instead, I scrolled through old voice memos —
my humming drafts, my discarded verses, my midnight mumbles.
But there was one file I didn't recognize.
Untitled.mp3
Date: two nights ago.
Time: 3:04am.
I don't record anything in my sleep.
I lock my recorder.
I wear earplugs.
I silence the room.
But the file was there.
My voice.
Singing.
---
> "You loved me for the silence I carried,
but hated the weight of it when I dropped it on your name…"
---
I froze.
It was my voice —
but with an edge I didn't remember knowing.
Not vulnerable.
Not longing.
Sharp.
Perfect.
Cruel.
---
When had I written that?
Where had that melody come from?
---
I checked my email.
A message from my manager.
Subject: "You're trending again. Didn't know you released new work 🖤"
There was a link.
Streaming platform.
New artist profile.
Same name. Same photo.
Slightly different artist bio.
> "Emerging from silence with sharp lyrical clarity and sonic rage…"
The song was there.
Under my name.
Over half a million plays.
I pressed play.
The voice wasn't mine.
And it was.
It breathed the way I breathed.
Paused on the same syllables I would've.
But each word felt... reversed.
Like the lyrics had been reflected through a wound I'd never touched.
---
> "This isn't just a glitch," I said out loud.
> "No," a voice replied — from inside my own mouth.
> "It's a memory returning early."
---
I choked.
Checked the mirror.
She was gone.
No reflection.
Just the wall behind me.
---
I ran to the studio.
I needed the soundboard.
Something analog.
Something I could trust.
I plugged in the mic.
Switched on the console.
But the lights flickered.
The board started recording before I touched it.
The screen glitched.
Then words appeared in waveform.
Not sound.
Text. Typed like a ghost with perfect rhythm.
---
> "You stopped singing the day you lied to yourself."
> "So I took over."
---
I yanked the plug.
The screen turned black.
But across the bottom in faint white:
> "You never finished that first song. I did."
---
A knock at the door.
Three soft taps.
Then silence.
I stood, breath frozen.
Opened the door.
No one.
Just an envelope.
No stamp.
No name.
Inside:
A torn photo — me, blurred beside someone I couldn't identify.
A sheet of paper with a song title:
> "The One You Were Supposed to Be"
Below it, the line:
> "Do you remember writing this… or do I?"
---
I pressed my forehead to the wall.
Started humming a song I used to sing when I was scared.
> La-da-da… in the dark where the echoes breathe…
A lullaby my mother used to—
Wait.
That wasn't the melody.
It shifted.
The words morphed.
I heard a second voice, layered beneath mine.
Not harmony.
Competition.
---
I opened my old journals.
Flipped through the scribbles.
Most were mine.
One wasn't.
Different ink.
Same handwriting.
But sharper.
Letters spaced too precisely.
Words I would never write.
---
> "I'm not haunting you. I'm becoming you."
---
I grabbed a pen.
Wrote on my arm:
> "WHO IS SHE?"
And before the ink dried,
my hand moved without me.
Below my question, in the same pen:
> "The one who wrote you first."
---
I didn't sleep for three days.
I built a soundproof room.
Burned every mirror.
Muted every speaker.
But the silence wasn't safe anymore.
Because in the silence, she sings.
Not loud.
Not constant.
But surgically placed.
At the edge of dreams.
Just loud enough to wake a memory I didn't give permission to return.
---
On day four, I found a flash drive in my mailbox.
Labeled in red tape:
> "You forgot this."
Inside: one file.
The Other Voice.wav
Length: 9 minutes.
No metadata.
I played it.
Nine minutes of layered vocals —
my voice, but pitched deeper.
Distorted.
Backmasked messages.
At 4:37, clear as glass:
> "You left me in the unfinished chorus.
So I found my own verse."
---
Then came the final message:
> "I'm not a ghost.
I'm the version of you
that stopped waiting to be loved
and started being feared."
---
I backed away from the desk.
I could still hear the song.
Even with the headphones off.
Not from the speakers.
From under my skin.
---
In the dream that night, I performed on stage.
Except the spotlight hit the wrong person.
She wore my face.
Held my mic.
And the crowd screamed my name for her.
I opened my mouth to stop her.
She opened hers first.
And said:
> "You shouldn't have written me so well."
---
I woke up gasping.
Looked at my notes.
One new song draft had appeared.
Typed.
Dated for tomorrow.
Title:
> "The Version They Chose"
Below it:
> "You only get to be original once."