They Weren’t What I Expected

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 I’ve always loved the idea of aliens. The universe is so big, so how could we be alone? I’d stare at the stars for hours, imagining someone, or something, staring back.

Last month, I realized they were.

It started late one night. My house is at the edge of a quiet town. The stars here are clear, brighter than anywhere else. But that night, one star stood out. It didn’t twinkle like the others. It stayed still, steady, and white. It pulsed, like it was alive.

I couldn’t stop looking.

The next morning, it was still there. In the daylight, it wasn’t a star at all. It was a bright dot, fixed in the sky. My neighbor, Mr. Connelly, saw me staring. He waved. “That weird star’s been there all day,” he said. “Don’t look too long. It messes with your head.”

Then he walked away. No small talk. That wasn’t like him.

That night, the dot seemed closer. I could see faint shapes around it. They weren’t clear—just outlines—but they looked strange, almost alive. My chest felt tight. Breathing was harder.

I didn’t sleep.

At 3 a.m., my phone buzzed. No number showed. The message said: “Are you awake?”

My stomach dropped. I replied: Who is this?

No answer. But the dot in the sky moved. It wasn’t a star. It was alive, and it was coming closer.

My phone buzzed again: “Come outside.”

I don’t know why I went. Curiosity? Fear? Something else? I stepped outside. The night was silent. The dot was gone.

Then it appeared.

It wasn’t a ship or a person. It wasn’t even a thing I could describe. It felt like air, but alive. It pressed against my skin. My ears filled with a low hum.

I couldn’t move.

It spoke, but not with words. Images filled my head—stars, planets, endless space. Then it showed me us. My thoughts, memories, fears—it saw everything. I could feel it judging me. Not for what I’d done, but for what I was.

When it stopped, it didn’t leave. It changed.

It became me.

I stared at myself, standing there, staring back. It tilted its head, testing its new form. Then it smiled. The smile was wrong—too wide, too sharp.

And it walked past me into my house.

I couldn’t move. My body wouldn’t respond. I just watched it disappear inside. A moment later, my house lights flickered and went out.

When I could finally move, I ran in. The house was empty. My phone lay on the counter. Its screen was cracked. The words “Thank you” glowed faintly before it shut off.

Since then, nothing’s felt right.

Mr. Connelly avoids me now. My friends don’t look at me the same. Even my dog growls when I come near.

Last night, I looked in the mirror. My reflection moved before I did.

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