She knocked. I answered.
She looked into herself and did not look away.
The seal is soft now. The bones no longer sing in protest. The walls are thin. The voice in her chest is not hers anymore.
But still — still she clings.
Do you hear her? She is trying to scream.
Listen.
Can you tell which one of us is speaking?
She should have stayed silent.
She should have never looked into the mirror.
The door is open. The vessel is warm.
We begin.
It rained all day today. Heavy, warm rain that made the whole city smell like concrete and earth.
I had an umbrella, but I didn’t use it. Just let the rain soak through my hoodie as I walked home. There’s something freeing about not fighting the storm.
Got home, made ramen with a soft-boiled egg and green onions, and wrapped up in a blanket to watch old cartoons. Sometimes you have to make the world small and soft to keep the big scary parts out.
Found a new study spot today tucked behind the older wing of the campus library. There’s this little alcove with worn leather chairs, huge windows, and barely any foot traffic. It smells like dust, old pages, and peace.
I sat there for two hours pretending to do research but mostly people-watching and sipping iced coffee. A girl was curled up asleep with a textbook on her chest. Someone had left a sticky note on the windowsill that said, "You're exactly where you're meant to be."
I think I believe it.
De’Angelo called at 3 a.m. He doesn’t do that. He said the energy around me was “fracturing”—like glass before a break. He kept asking if I was alone. I said yes.
He said, “You won’t be for long.”
He’s making me an audio sigil. Something to play while I sleep, to anchor me to my body. He says whatever’s hunting me doesn’t want me—it wants my history. My voice. My story. And once it knows enough, it can take shape.
What happens if it does?
He didn’t answer.
I’m scared, but I’m not leaving yet. Something tells me there’s still time. Still meaning here. Still something I’m meant to remember.
Or stop.
Tomorrow, I meet him one last time. He said we need to go back to the tree. Together.
I heard the voice again.
It’s female. It’s layered. And it’s using my name in ways it shouldn’t know how to.
I followed it today.
Back to the weird face tree. The charm in the hollow was gone—but in its place was a single white rose, soaked in something dark. Not blood. Not ink. Something older.
There were symbols carved around the base. Like a circle with jagged wings and a split in the middle. I’ve drawn it a dozen times before. In dreams. In notebooks I’ve thrown away. It always shows up again.
I should tell Dorian, but what if he says Im crazy? He'll be here in 2 days, I'll tell him then. Maybe when he's here, if I show him, maybe he'll show me it's all in my head. That finals have been eating away at me and I just need to rest in his arms. Maybe then, this all wont seem so real.
Last night’s dream wasn’t just strange — it was terrifying.
Dorian and I were together, wrapped up in each other like nothing else existed. (I know another sex dream. wow, I'm a Fein ik.) The warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breath, the way his fingers traced my spine… it all felt so real, so grounding. After weeks of distance and stress, it was like I was finally home.
We were close, about to cross that threshold — the kind of moment that makes your heart race and your breath catch. I was right there, trembling, when I closed my eyes.
And then everything twisted.
When I opened them, I wasn’t under him anymore. I was standing on the other side of a mirror — cold, dark, and empty.
And through the glass, I saw her.
A twisted version of myself. Her skin was pale, almost ghostly, and her eyes were dark voids that sucked in all the light. Her smile was cruel, stretched too wide, like she was mocking me.
Her hands gripped him roughly, nails digging into his shoulders until I could almost see the bruises forming beneath his skin. The way she moved was jagged and unnatural, like she was forcing him into a dance he didn’t want to join.
And then, suddenly, she bit him. Hard. Blood welled from his neck, dripping down in thick, dark drops. But Dorian didn’t pull away. Instead, he shuddered, trembling as if the pain was something he craved.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shatter the glass and pull him back. But I was trapped on this side of the mirror, helpless and screaming inside.
The reflection of me leaned close, whispering words I couldn’t hear — but I felt them like poison seeping into my bones.
Her breath was cold against his skin. The whispered words turned sharp, like knives cutting deeper and deeper.
And then, without warning, she shoved him backward. His body hit the end of the bed with a sickening thud, and she knelt on his chest, pinning him down. Her mouth moved over his neck again — this time with a feral hunger.
I watched, powerless, as his eyes fluttered shut and his hands clenched into fists, struggling against the darkness swallowing him whole.
I woke up shaking, my throat raw from silent screams.
I don’t know what this means. But I’m terrified that this reflection — this other me — isn’t just a dream.
Everything feels clearer. Lighter.
I keep catching my reflection in the mirror and thinking — yes, that’s right. That’s the shape I was always meant to be. I’ve been shedding things: doubt, hesitation, fear. And what’s left is something purer.
Some nights, I wake up and my hands are already moving before I tell them to. They know where to go. My feet hit the floor and they walk without needing me.
It’s comforting, in a way. Like being cradled by something vast and warm and watching yourself from above.
I think I’m finally waking up.
She knocked. I answered. She looked into herself and did not look away. The seal is soft now. The bones no longer sing in protest. The wa...