Kanza is a passionate writer who explores the depths of human psychology, identity, and the uncanny. With a love for suspense and thought-provoking narratives, she blends imagination with keen observation of human behavior, creating stories that linger in the reader’s mind. Her work reflects her fascination with transformation, emotions, and the hidden layers of everyday life.

 The Face That Waits

He had always hated waking up. Not just the blaring alarm or the chill that crept into the room in the early hours, but the mirror that awaited him every morning, cold and merciless. The first thing he saw when his eyelids fluttered open was never his own reflection. Sometimes, it was soft, almost innocent, a face that invited trust. Other times, it was sharp, harsh, nearly cruel as if it had known things he hadn’t and held grudges he couldn’t comprehend.

Tonight, the air was different. Heavy, almost metallic, pressing down on the chest. Streetlights outside flickered unevenly, sending elongated shadows across the ceiling. The familiar twinge began in his knees, slow at first, then sharp. Fingers bent backward, wrists twisted, ribs groaned. Teeth moved in their sockets. A low, involuntary groan escaped his throat. He clenched his fists, biting down hard, trying to suppress it, but the twisting, wrenching pain only intensified.

It ended as abruptly as it started. Trembling, he staggered toward the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink for balance. His heart thudded so loudly he thought the neighbors might hear. The reflection that greeted him made him catch his breath. The eyes—emerald green and too bright—stared back with a terrifying intensity. High cheekbones, narrow nose, lips full and slightly curved in a mocking smile. And then he noticed it: a tiny scar above the right eyebrow. That scar. That exact shape, that imperfection—it was familiar. Far too familiar.

A vibration startled him. The phone screen glowed in the dim room. A text message from a friend: “Hey… happy birthday? Did you sleep?” His stomach dropped. It wasn’t his birthday. How could this be? Another alert popped up seconds later: “You shouldn’t be awake. You shouldn’t be seeing this.”

He froze. The reflection in the mirror tilted its head slowly, almost lazily, and for a brief, horrifying moment, it seemed to smirk at him. Cold sweat ran down his back. A shiver traveled up his spine. His mouth went dry.

Then the news alert came. He unlocked the phone. “Body discovered in downtown alley—victim unidentified.” His fingers trembled as he tapped the article. A photograph loaded. His chest tightened, air refused to fill his lungs. The face in the photo—the same green eyes, the same scar above the eyebrow, the same lips—was the one staring back at him from the mirror. Alive. But the body in the photograph was dead. Cold. Lifeless.

Memories from past years rushed back—faces he had worn, faces that had once belonged to others. Innocent ones, beautiful ones, grotesque ones. Every face he had ever seen in the mirror had a life of its own. And tonight’s face… tonight’s face belonged to someone who had only just died.

A knock rattled the door. Panic clenched his stomach like iron. “Who’s there?” he croaked, his voice almost unrecognizable. His reflection leaned forward in the glass, green eyes glowing, the smirk now unmistakable. “It’s my turn,” the voice whispered inside his skull. “I deserve to see.”

He backed away, fumbling for the doorknob, his hands shaking violently. The room felt smaller, suffocating. He realized, with cold, sinking dread, that he wasn’t just changing faces. Every transformation meant taking on someone else’s life, their memories, their last moments, their death. And each borrowed face came with its own claim on him.

He sank onto the floor, hugging his knees, trying to steady his breath. Hours passed, but sleep never came. Every reflection—windows, puddles, shop mirrors—was a confrontation. Strangers would look at him with subtle recognition, and with every look, he felt the weight of the life he had assumed pressing down on him.

His name, whispered softly by the reflection, finally surfaced in his mind: Zeeshan. Only then did he feel the terrifying weight of identity settle fully on his shoulders. He was not just a boy who endured these nightly transformations. He was a boy carrying hundreds of borrowed lives, haunted by the knowledge that one day, one of these lives might refuse to leave. One day, Zeeshan might wake up and realize he no longer existed at all.

Because some faces, some lives… do not let go.