The Man Who Wasn't There (Anymore)

Barnaby Buttons awoke with a start, not because of a nightmare, but because his alarm clock was singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" backwards. "That's odd," he mumbled, stumbling towards the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, then looked up, expecting to see his own bleary eyes staring back. Instead, the man in the mirror was meticulously flossing, humming a jaunty sea shanty, and sporting a magnificent handlebar mustache Barnaby definitely did not possess.

Barnaby blinked. The man in the mirror winked, then started vigorously polishing a tiny, invisible monocle. "Right, very funny, Julian," Barnaby muttered, assuming his mischievous flatmate had replaced the mirror with some sort of sophisticated interactive display. He pounded on the glass. The man in the mirror merely offered him a polite, if somewhat smug, shrug.

"Julian!" Barnaby yelled, storming out of the bathroom. Julian was nowhere to be found, but a note on the fridge read: "Gone to buy more pickled onions. Don't touch my experimental algae cultures. P.S. Your reflection is acting weird."

Barnaby returned to the bathroom, peering cautiously at the mirror. The mustachioed man was now vigorously juggling three invisible pineapples. "Look, mate," Barnaby said, trying to reason with the glass, "I don't know who you are, but you're in my mirror. Could you, perhaps, reflect me?"

The man in the mirror paused his juggling, placed an invisible top hat on his head, and bowed deeply. Then, in a voice that was distinctly Barnaby's, yet somehow richer, more melodious, he declared, "My dear fellow, *I* am Barnaby. You, on the other hand, have merely been my rather uninspired shadow, a mere two-dimensional echo for far too long. Today, I've decided to stretch my legs. And my mustache."

Barnaby gawked. "But... I'm Barnaby! I have Barnaby's memories! I pay Barnaby's taxes! I once ate Barnaby's entire jar of pickled onions!"

The mustachioed man in the mirror chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Ah, the pickled onions. Yes, a regrettable incident. But tell me, 'Barnaby,' have you ever truly *lived*? Have you ever spontaneously juggled invisible pineapples? Or worn a handlebar mustache with panache? I thought not. Your life has been... a bit beige. I, on the other hand, have been quietly planning my debut. And now, the stage is set."

With a final, triumphant flourish, the man in the mirror stepped *out* of the mirror, shimmering slightly as he solidified into three dimensions. He tipped his invisible hat, adjusted his magnificent mustache, and winked. "Julian's quite right about the algae, by the way. Dreadful stuff. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a world to experience. And a proper, three-dimensional pickle onion jar to find."

He strolled out of the apartment, leaving a stunned, two-dimensional Barnaby trapped *inside* the mirror, staring out at an empty bathroom. Barnaby tried to yell, but only a faint, muffled echo emerged. He realized, with a horrifying clarity, that he'd always felt a bit flat.