You watch two versions of the same person collide, and you can't tell which one is real. Memory stops meaning anything about halfway through. By the end, you're not watching a story about doppelgangers, you're watching the space between who you are and who you remember being collapse into nothing, and it stays with you because it feels less like fiction and more like the thing that happens to everyone when they stop paying attention to themselves.
A man encounters his own reflection, except it moves independently. What begins as an impossible moment spirals into something far more unsettling: the distinction between who he is and who he might be starts to dissolve. Memories blur into dreams. Dreams fracture into hallucinations. The line separating past from future collapses entirely. As these two versions of himself interact, neither can claim certainty about which one is real, which one is living, which one is remembering. Their conversations loop and contradict. Moments repeat with subtle shifts. The apartment around them becomes a space where causality itself feels negotiable. Mirror works best if you're comfortable with ambiguity and fractured narratives. This is introspective, disorienting cinema that refuses easy answers about identity and consciousness. It operates in the space where psychological horror meets existential meditation. The animation style reinforces this unstable reality, making every frame feel slightly off. You'll spend the runtime questioning not just what's happening, but whether the questions themselves have meaning.