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Logan
The moment I woke up, I felt like I’d emerged into a slow-motion car crash of regret. My temples pounded in a dull, rhythmic ache as if each throb were trying to remind me of my terrible choices. Even my muscles protested, stiff and resentful like they'd had just about enough of me putting them through awkward date nights.
Oh, and let's not forget about last night's champion of awkwardness. The guy's name was Chad, or was it Brad? Hell, it might as well have been Sad because that was the best descriptor for the date.
How could one guy manage to turn every conversation into a dead end? It was like dating a human cul-de-sac.
And don't even get me started on that dance floor fiasco at the club after dinner. He tried to dip me like we were in some 1940s musical when they played the “White Lotus” remix. Except instead of catching me, he nearly dislocated my shoulder. Gene Kelly, he was not.
"Okay, Logan, no more wild Friday nights with strangers who think they're Fred Astaire," I muttered as I got out of bed.
The really sad part? This wasn't a new low. I set the low three weeks ago with that guy who wore socks and sandals to dinner at a steakhouse.
You'd think by the time you hit your early 30s, you'd have better judgment. But nope, not me.
Look for me on the podium, battling for the gold medal in the bad date Olympics.
I padded into my living room, half expecting to see remnants of last night's disaster. It all looked the same—except, wasn't that lamp on the other side of the table when I went to bed?
Reaching the kitchen next, I detected the distinctive scent of lavender wafting through the air. Strange, considering my cleaning supplies screamed lemon or pine but never lavender. I glanced around, half-expecting to find a rogue scented candle I'd forgotten about, but there was nothing.
Then my eyes landed on another peculiarity—my collection of letter magnets on the fridge. They usually cluttered the surface in a haphazard mess, but now a series of them were arranged to spell out "Hi Logan.”
A little laugh of disbelief slipped out. My friends knew I was a stickler for routine; none of them would dare touch my magnet chaos. Or would they? I groaned while the mysterious lavender aroma continued to float through the air.
I blinked and tried to shake the strange sensations. It had to be the morning fog messing with my mind. I made a mental note to lay off the cheap red wine.
After starting my coffee, I shrugged it all off, walked into the bathroom, and began my morning dental routine.
Toothpaste on the brush, scrub, scrub, scrub—and then I saw him. Right there in my mirror, framed by chrome and soft daylight bulbs, stood a stranger. My heart thumped hard in my ribcage, echoing louder than the toothbrush's hum.
I spun around, toothbrush still hanging from my mouth. No one.
The bathroom was empty, just my green bath towel hanging neatly on the chrome rack alongside my array of toiletries lined up like loyal soldiers. I turned back to the mirror, and there he was—as if anchored to the glass.
My eyes widened, meeting his in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow as if challenging me to react, and then his lips quirked up into a lopsided grin that exuded cheeky confidence. It was like he was daring me to look away first.
I stared at his reflection. Wavy, sandy-colored hair framed a face that could've easily graced a magazine cover. His eyes were an extraordinary shade of blue. A playful smile caused the corners of his lips to curve upward.
The stranger mimicked my shocked expression with an exaggerated gasp, then broke into a radiant grin. And damn it all, I couldn’t look away.
My rational mind rang alarm bells, but I could only focus on how strikingly attractive he was. How was it possible for a figment of my imagination to be so incredibly cute?
"Whoa. Wait a second. Are you real, or did I have more to drink last night than I thought?" I scanned the room for hidden cameras. This had Mike's prank fingerprints all over it—or maybe Sarah was trying to tell me to lay off the late-night escapades.
But the guy in the mirror just waved, still smiling that charming-as-hell smile. Any other person who grasped reality would have been calling 9-1-1, but instead, I waved back. Hesitantly, sure, but still a wave.
"I must be losing it," I mumbled to myself. "Should I continue this conversation with a total stranger or evacuate my own apartment?"
"Okay, who are you? And why are you in my mirror?" My voice was more steady than I felt.
He chuckled. "I’m Ben. Loving the bed hair, by the way. It's like you fought with a pillow, and the pillow won."
"Ha-ha, very funny." Rolling my eyes, I grabbed my phone. "Smile, we're going viral."
I snapped a photo. My heart sank a bit when I looked at the screen—empty bathroom, just me. I glanced back at the mirror. Ben was laughing like he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.
"Alright, I'm done playing. You tell me what's happening, or I start smashing mirrors. Got it?" My tone was firm but tinged with the tiniest edge of desperate curiosity. I needed to know who this Ben was and why he was—quite literally—in my space.
