Semua Bab JASMINE : Bab 1 - Bab 6

CHAPTER 2 310 days before my life was caught short. The morning after my poetry notebook reappeared, I skipped breakfast. Gloria was already halfway through a rant about utility bills and my missing laundry, but her voice sounded distant, like I was listening through water. I slipped on my uniform, stuffed the mysterious notebook deep into my backpack, and left the house before she could ask why I looked like I hadn’t slept. Because I hadn’t. Again. The dreams were worse now—less like dreams and more like memories I didn’t remember making. Last night, I’d found myself back in that same hallway, only now it was underwater. Everything moved in slow motion. The walls bled shadows. And there were voices—not just Brianna’s this time, but others. Distant, urgent, unintelligible. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I knew they were meant for me. At school, no one seemed to notice that I was falling apart. That’s the thing about high school. You could be a ghost and n

CHAPTER 4 I didn’t sleep that night. It wasn’t the kind of restlessness that came from too much coffee or a stressful assignment. It was deeper—like my body had already decided sleep was dangerous. Every time I closed my eyes, Lana’s face stared back at me, not the smiling one from memory, but the bound, terrified one in the photo. Her eyes pleading. The rope tight around her arms. The background behind her still a blur of shadows and dust, and the red smear on the floor just visible if you dared to look long enough. I lay curled under my duvet, holding the photo beneath my pillow. The longer I kept it close, the more unreal it felt. Like a cursed object. If I looked at it too long, I might start seeing things. Hearing things. I didn’t turn on the light again. I didn’t want to see it. But I also didn’t want to forget it was real. That someone had slipped it into my locker. That Lana—missing for months—might still be alive. Or worse, had been alive. I counted the hours in fra

CHAPTER 6 308 days before my life was caught short The morning after the dream—or the message, or whatever it had been—arrived in layers of muted light and silence. My body felt weighed down as though I’d lived out the events of the night instead of dreaming them. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to make sense of the photo, of Lana, of the feeling that something cold had crept into the edges of my life and made a home there. I didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. The photo remained tucked in the back of my notebook, hidden beneath a fold of looseleaf paper that had once held my English notes but now seemed to carry the heaviness of a secret. I didn’t dare touch it again that morning. I barely wanted to look at it. Instead, I pulled myself through the motions of getting ready—pulling on a hoodie, tugging my hair into a bun, skipping breakfast. My mother was in the kitchen humming off-key to a song on the radio,