You feel it first
in the mirror’s corner—
a flicker.
Not your blink.
Something else’s.

You smile.
It smiles
a beat later.

You raise your hand.
It raises
the wrong one.

You tell yourself
it’s tired eyes.
Old glass.
Trick of light.

But at night,
when the house is still,
you feel it move.
Not your muscles.
Something riding them.

A passenger
in the driver’s seat.

You try to speak.
Words come out
in your voice—
but not your choice.

“I’m hungry,”
it says
through your mouth.

You weren’t.
Now you are.

You walk to the kitchen.
Feet
not quite yours.

Open the fridge.
Stare at raw meat.
Salivate.

You never liked it rare.
Now you crave
the red.
The warm.
The pulse.

You sleep.
Dream of being watched
from inside your own skull.

Wake
with bruises on your arms.
Finger-shaped.
Your fingers.
But tighter.
Stronger.

You try to leave the house.
Hand on the door.
It stops.
Turns the lock.
From the inside.

You whisper,
“Who are you?”

It answers—
soft,
in your head—
“Who do you think?”

You look in the mirror.
Smile.
It smiles first.
Wider.
Teeth sharper.
Eyes darker.

And you realise—
it’s been driving
for years.
You were just
the passenger.

Waiting
to be evicted.

Written By MCapture