My Twisted Lover in the Mirror

I was awakened by the sunlight. As my eyelids parted, the cicadas' song outside slipped through the screen window. Morris Jackson's arm was draped over my waist. I turned my head to look at him; his eyes were still closed, eyelashes casting faint shadows beneath. I used to like touching the mole on the right side of his face, a small one, like a pale brown star. My fingers instinctively reached out, but touched the same spot on the left side of his face. I hesitated, thinking I must have been mistaken. Looking more closely, the mole was indeed on his left cheek. A flicker of panic stirred within me. Morris woke, raising his hand to rub his eyes. I watched his hand—though clearly right-handed, he used his left to prop himself up as he sat. "What's wrong?" His voice was hoarse from just waking, and the look in his eyes felt strangely unfamiliar. "Nothing." I pushed down my doubts. "Aren't you working today?" "I took the day off." He picked up his phone, swiping the screen with his left hand. "A friend is coming over." I didn't ask any more and got up to prepare breakfast in the kitchen. While frying eggs, I heard the front door open. Morris's laughter drifted in: "Naomi, come in quickly, don't just stand there at the door." The name "Naomi" made me freeze, the spatula in my hand halting mid-air. Naomi Scott? The bitter rival Morris had despised for three years? I walked into the living room and indeed saw Naomi standing by the entrance, wearing Morris's gray slippers and holding a delicate gift box. She saw me and curled a provocative smile: "Whitney, long time no see." Morris walked over, naturally took the gift box from her hands, and smoothed her wind-tousled hair. "You must be tired from the trip. Please, sit down." I watched their intimate gestures, my heart tightening as if squeezed. "Morris, what do you mean?" My voice was strained. He turned to look at me, frowning. "Whitney, what are you saying? Naomi is my friend, just visiting our home." Naomi sat on the sofa, picked up the glass on the table, took a slow sip, and said leisurely, "Whitney, don't misunderstand. Morris and I are just ordinary friends, but..." She deliberately paused, letting out a light laugh. "But Morris said that when he's with me, it's much more relaxing than when he's with you." My fingers clenched the edge of my clothes tightly, my nails digging into my palm. "Naomi, don't go too far!" I stood up, my voice trembling uncontrollably. Morris immediately stepped in front of Naomi, his face darkening. "Whitney! What are you playing at? Naomi came here with good intentions—why are you being so aggressive?" Naomi tugged at Morris's sleeve, feigning hurt. "Morris, forget it. Maybe I shouldn't have come. Whitney must be mad about me." "It's none of your business," Morris said as he turned to look at her, his tone instantly softening. "She's the one with the bad temper." I looked at the unfamiliar Morris before me, a sharp pain stabbing at my heart. He never treated me like this before; even when I threw occasional tantrums, he would patiently comfort me. But now, all for Naomi, he actually blamed me like this. That afternoon, Naomi stayed until dinnertime before leaving. Before she left, she deliberately went to the kitchen, saying she wanted to help me clear the dishes. I sat dazed in the living room, my mind filled with the image of Morris's mole on the left side of his face and the way he held chopsticks with his left hand. At night, as usual, I was about to take my antihypertensive. I paused for a moment as I picked up the medicine bottle. The way the cap was screwed on was different from usual; I normally twist it clockwise three times, but now it seemed to have been turned counterclockwise. I thought I must have remembered wrong, so I poured out a white pill and swallowed it with warm water. About half an hour later, my arm started to itch. After scratching a few times, a patch of red rash appeared, and my breathing gradually became labored. "Morris!" I called out, leaning against the wall, my voice weak. He rushed out of the study, saw me, and frowned. "What's going on? Are you having an allergic reaction?" Naomi actually followed right behind him, carrying a bag of freshly bought fruit. "Oh, Whitney, what's wrong? Did you eat something wrong?" I pointed to the medicine bottle on the table, unable to speak, only gasping for air. Morris picked up the medicine bottle, looked it over, then glanced at Naomi. "She only had dinner today, nothing else." Naomi stepped closer, feigning concern. "Could it be the medicine? Whitney, how long have you been taking it?" I wanted to shake my head, but I didn't have the strength to move. Darkness began to cloud my vision, and before I finally passed out, I caught the fleeting smile at the corner of Naomi's lips. When I woke again, I was already lying in a hospital bed. The medicine in the IV drip fell drop by drop, and the rash on my arm hadn't yet fully faded. Morris sat beside the bed, scrolling on his phone. Seeing that I was awake, he looked up. "Awake? The doctor said you had an allergic reaction to the medication. Luckily, you got here just in time." "The medicine..." My throat was dry and sore. "The medicine was tampered with." He frowned. "How could that be? The medicine bottle has been on the table the whole time; no one's touched it." Just then, the nurse came in to change the IV bag. Hearing our conversation, she casually remarked, "Your medicine seems a bit off. We checked the ingredients, and it's different from the antihypertensive listed in your medical record. Are you sure you didn't take the wrong one?" I suddenly looked at Morris. His eyes flickered briefly as he avoided my gaze. "Maybe the hospital mixed it up. Don't worry about it — just rest for now." I said nothing more and turned to look out the window. The sky was gray and hazy, as if veiled by a thin layer of mist. The doubts in my heart grew deeper—the mole on Morris's left cheek, eating with his left hand, favoring Naomi, the tampered medicine. It all felt like a distorted reflection.