CHAPTER 2
838 Words
I changed my number, moved out of Lagos to my cousin’s flat in Abuja, and tried to start over. But paranoia followed me like a shadow. I stopped answering calls from unknown numbers, taped over my laptop camera, and barely went out.
One evening, while sorting through old boxes, I found a USB stick labeled “Viv’s Copy.” The handwriting was Jason’s.
Against every instinct, I plugged it into my laptop.
There were dozens of folders — labeled with dates, each containing footage from inside our apartment. Every angle. Every room. Every day.
Footage of me cooking, brushing my hair, crying when I thought I was alone.
And in several clips, Jason appeared on the other side of the mirror — watching, recording, whispering things like, “She’s almost ready.”
Almost ready for what?
---
I went to the police again, this time with the USB. They took it seriously. They traced the encryption — it led back to a shell company Jason had registered years ago. Apparently, he’d been running an illegal surveillance ring, selling private footage of people he “helped” move into luxury apartments.
My apartment was one of many.
But when they raided his last known location, they found it abandoned. Only one thing was left behind — a wall mirror, leaning against the center of the room.
Behind the mirror, they found a single photograph.
It was of me, standing in front of my cousin’s flat — taken less than 24 hours earlier.
---
The police placed me under protection, but it didn’t help. Every night, I’d feel eyes on me — from reflections, from screens, from the faint shine of the window glass. Sometimes, I’d wake up with the feeling that someone had just stepped out of the room.
One night, I woke to find the mirror across from my bed slightly tilted. I hadn’t touched it.
On the back, written in Jason’s handwriting, were three words:
> You told them.
---
A few days later, I was called in by the police. They’d received a video confession — or so they thought. It was Jason, sitting in a dark room, smiling.
“Vivian,” he said, looking straight into the camera. “You should have left it alone. You wanted the truth, remember? You wanted to expose me. But not every secret is meant to be told.”
Then he leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Especially the one about yourself.”
The screen went black.
---
I laughed when I saw it. A broken, terrified laugh.
What did he mean — about myself?
Then, slowly, I remembered something I’d buried deep. Years ago, before I met Jason, I had been working on a story about corporate espionage — a story that went wrong. One of my sources had disappeared. I’d been in a car accident the same week, lost parts of my memory. The doctors said trauma can do that — erase what your brain can’t handle.
I thought Jason found me after all that, that he helped me rebuild.
But what if he didn’t just find me?
What if he was part of it?
---
A month later, I went back to the apartment, against everyone’s advice. I told the police I wanted closure. They let me in with an escort, but after a while, I asked to be alone.
The air smelled the same — faintly metallic, sterile. I walked to the mirror, tracing my reflection with my fingers. My reflection stared back, tired, haunted, older.
And then it smiled.
I didn’t.
The reflection smiled on its own.
I stumbled back, heart racing. The mirror shimmered faintly — and then a faint static sound came from behind it.
Jason’s voice.
> “Welcome home, Vivian.”
The lights flickered. My escort burst into the room seconds later, but the mirror was normal again. My reflection was mine.
I didn’t tell them what I’d seen. They wouldn’t believe me anyway.
---
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing his voice in my head, whispering the same words: You wanted the truth.
And maybe I did.
Maybe I still do.
But I’ve learned something since then — something Jason tried to teach me in the most twisted way possible.
Sometimes, knowing the truth doesn’t set you free.
It traps you.
Because not every secret is meant to be told.
- Writer
