A Mind Split Twice - Swaraj Boruah - Std 8 - 12

The air held a deceptive perfection that morning on Krysol Peak, a coolness that hinted at something unseen stirring beneath the surface of the pines' crisp scent. It was the kind of solitude that initially offered solace, a balm against the unseen frictions of the world. Yuna moved through this verdant hush, the trees arching not as welcoming guardians, but as silent, watchful entities whose stillness felt pregnant with unarticulated knowledge. Sunlight, fractured by the dense canopy, dappled the forest floor in a way that seemed less like illumination and more like fleeting, uncertain glimpses into another dimension. The cheerful chirping of unseen birds held a brittle quality, a forced gaiety that did little to dispel the underlying quietude. Drawn by the gentle murmur of water, a sound that promised clarity in the heart of the woods, Yuna deviated from the marked path. The stream, when she found it, possessed an almost unnatural clarity, its surface mirroring the sky with an unsettling fidelity. Kneeling beside it, the coolness of the water against her skin was a sharp, grounding sensation. Her reflection stared back, for a fleeting moment whole and undisturbed. Then came the bubbles, an anomaly in the crystalline flow. They rose with a deliberate insistence from a single point beneath the surface, a subtle disruption of the expected order. This was no thermal spring, no natural effervescence. A prickle of unease, faint yet distinct, began to stir within Yuna.

Curiosity, that often perilous human trait, propelled her to investigate. The stick she found met a resistance that felt strangely artificial, a flatness that defied the natural contours of stone. Moving with a growing sense of disquiet, she leaned closer, the water momentarily obscuring her vision before revealing a submerged secret. A shard of glass, small and broken, lay nestled amongst the pebbles. Its reflective surface caught the filtered sunlight, throwing back a distorted image of the streambed. A responsible impulse – the thought of harm to the forest's inhabitants – prompted her to retrieve it. The glass, however, held a disquieting quality even before it drew blood. It possessed a mirror-like sheen that seemed to absorb rather than simply reflect. The sting on her finger was minor, a thin red line appearing almost instantly. But when she looked down at the shard again, the reflection held a subtle discordance. Her eye, mirrored in the glass, seemed to waver, and a hairline crack marred the would-be iris. A furrow creased her brow – an instinctive recognition of something profoundly wrong masked by a veneer of logical dismissal. Placing the unsettling fragment on a nearby rock, Yuna reached for the mundane comfort of a bandage. The sharp crack that followed sliced through the forest's quiet like a physical blow. The birdsong ceased abruptly, leaving a vacuum of silence that felt heavy and expectant. Slowly, her gaze drifted back to the mirror piece. The crack had deepened, a stark line now bisecting the reflection of her neck. It was only an image, she told herself, but a cold dread began to coil in her stomach. Then, the impossible. A dark, viscous liquid seemed to bloom along the fracture in the glass, a crimson stain spreading with agonizing slowness. It was as if the reflected wound was real, bleeding into some unseen dimension. Drawn by a morbid fascination, Yuna leaned closer, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.

In the trembling silver, a whisper seemed to coalesce from the silence, a sibilant breath that spoke of thresholds crossed: "Welcome to the Mirror World…" The shard, suddenly slick with an unseen moisture, slipped from her grasp and clattered against the stone, the sound echoing the fracturing of her own reality. Logic, a fragile shield, crumbled under the weight of the impossible. Instinct took over. Yuna turned and fled, the normalcy of the forest suddenly a menacing facade. Her retreat was a desperate scramble, the familiar path now an obstacle course of grasping branches and uneven ground. Her unbandaged finger throbbed, a persistent reminder of the shard's touch. Then, a figure emerged from the dappled shadows ahead. Relief, sharp and sudden, flooded her. Another human, a witness, help. But as the distance closed, the relief curdled into a primal terror. The figure was her. The same height, the same backpack, the same bleeding finger. But the other Yuna bore a gruesome mark – a long, straight line of crimson bisecting her neck, mirroring the crack in the glass.

And then, the smile. A slow, knowing curve of the lips, followed by a casual wave. The scream tore from Yuna's throat, a raw, unbridled sound that shattered the forest's deceptive tranquility, the echo swallowed by the ancient, watchful trees. The mirrored self, the bleeding reflection, the whispered invitation – the world had tilted on its axis, and Yuna found herself on the precipice of a reality she could not comprehend, a terrifying reflection of her own unraveling.

About the Author:

Meet Swaraj Boruah :

Swaraj Boruah is a 17-year-old student at Sibsagar University with a mind that never stops exploring. When he's not defying gravity through calisthenics, you'll find him deep in thought, unraveling the complexities of philosophy, psychology, or diving into gripping crime thrillers. His current favorite? Deadbody Disposable by John Athan—dark, intense, and thought-provoking, just like Swaraj’s own imagination.

Though he prefers to keep some parts of his life “classified,” it’s clear that Swaraj thrives on curiosity, self-discipline, and the pursuit of truth—whether in books, in the gym, or in the human mind. He describes himself (quite seriously) as “from Mars,” which might explain his slightly otherworldly perspective on life and storytelling.

He shared his story not just to entertain—but to challenge, provoke, and remind us that even in a world full of noise, silence can be its own kind of mystery.

About the Story

This story was submitted by the author as an entry for the BhashaLab Ultimate Story Writing Competition, 2025. We appreciate their creativity, thoughtful expression, and the courage to share their voice with a wider audience. Thank you!

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