I only meant to lie -- once.
One fake fiancé.
One imaginary name to shut the family up.
One wedding where I wasn't the only one alone.
I said it offhand, just to stop the pitying looks.
I didn't even know where the name came from.
Javier.
It sounded clean. Sharp. Final.
But it wasn't.
The first time I saw him, he was behind me in the mirror.
It was after the reception. I was still drunk, still laughing at my own deception. I wiped the fog from the mirror -- and there he was. Dark shirt. Leather jacket. Head slightly tilted. Watching.
I didn't turn around.
I didn't scream.
I stood there, frozen, as the water dripped off my face and the figure behind me just... remained.
The light flickered. He vanished.
I didn't summon him. I didn't want him. The shamans confirmed that.
"He came on his own," they said. "That's the problem."
You can't banish something that wasn't invited.
He doesn't speak.
He watches.
He waits.
He remembers.
I stopped sleeping.
Not because of nightmares. But because I didn't want to see him in the dark.
Reflections stopped behaving. My phone screen turned black and sometimes held two faces.
The front-facing camera blinked on at night.
Once, I caught a glimpse of his reflection in a spoon.
It smiled.
He brings gifts now.
A bouquet left on my bed.
Carrion flowers.
Thick with the smell of rot and wet teeth.
Wrapped in a napkin with a ring inside.
Not gold.
Bone.
One morning I woke up to find him at the foot of my bed.
Not standing.
Not sitting.
Bent.
Folded.
Limbs knotted like ribbon.
His face was upside-down.
Eyes wide. Smiling.
Waiting.
I blinked and he was gone.
But the imprint remained on the sheets.
I don't think he died.
I think he was forgotten.
That name -- Javier -- was a shape without a memory.
And when I spoke it aloud, I gave it a door.
A voice in the dark said:
"You gave me form. Now I give you union."
He started rearranging things.
Photos reversed.
Mirrors turned toward walls.
The microwave showed the wrong time: 4:44.
Always 4:44.
My calls drop into static.
My mother's voice sounds like someone wearing her skin.
Once, my laptop screen showed my desktop -- but it wasn't mine.
Folders named "For Her"
and inside:
Photos of me.
Screenshots of my texts.
Recordings of my voice sleeping.
I don't remember being asleep.
He appeared again in the mirror.
Not behind me.
Inside it.
He put his hand against the glass.
So I did too.
It was warm.
I tried running.
I made it halfway down the stairs before I slipped.
Or was I pushed?
I remember hitting the floor.
And then... nothing.
Until I woke in bed, dressed in a wedding gown.
It was damp.
Soil clung to the lace.
Worms knotted in the hem.
The veil smelled like mildew and honey.
On my chest:
a handwritten note.
"For you, my bride."
Now when I blink, I lose time.
Yesterday I was in my room.
Today I woke up in the alley, barefoot, covered in bruises and flower petals.
No one saw me leave.
No cameras saw me arrive.
But a message was written on my bathroom wall.
"I do."
I smashed every reflective surface.
But then he moved into the screens.
I deleted everything.
Reset my accounts.
But he's already there.
He's stored.
In cached memory.
In residual files.
In my face when I close my eyes.
Last night, I typed "Help me" into the search bar.
And the results were all the same.
A photo of me.
Wearing the dress.
Smiling.
Standing next to someone blurry.
When I clicked on it, my camera light turned on.
And the screen whispered:
"My bride."
If you're reading this, it means you've seen his name.
It means your screen was open long enough.
He sees through names.
He wears them like keys.
You said it in your head, didn't you?
Javier.
You read it.
You believed it.
He's looking for you now.
And behind your screen...
He's already leaning in.