JASMINE のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

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,

CHAPTER 8 306 days before my life was caught short There are bruises on my knees from where I landed. There’s dirt in my hair, in my mouth, under my nails. But I don’t feel any of it. Not really. When I got back into the house—silent, untouched—I went straight to the bathroom and stood beneath the cold shower for twenty minutes. Clothes still on. Water seeping into the hoodie, the jeans, clinging like a second skin. I thought maybe if I stood still long enough, the heat inside me would leach out into the drain. The panic. The questions. It didn’t. The marks on my palm stayed. Door #2. Soon. I stared at those words until the water ran cold. Until the steam cleared and I saw myself in the mirror. Not the same Jasmine who went to sleep at midnight. Not the girl who used to laugh too loud or forget her charger or eat cereal at 2 a.m. This Jasmine looked… hollow. Like she was waiting for something that might not ever come back. — By morning, my skin still bu

CHAPTER 10 I didn’t sleep. Even after the mirror pulsed and reality shifted back to my bedroom, the weight in my chest didn’t lift. My bones felt wrong—like they belonged to someone else, someone older. Someone who remembered more than I could bear. The photo was still on my desk. The girl in the nightgown. And my mother. Smiling. I stared at it until my eyes ached. Nothing about it made sense. The photo looked decades old, the grain soft, the edges curled like time had tried to erase it. But there they were—side by side. Familiar. Comfortable. I tried calling my mom again. No answer. The last time I saw her, she was humming in the kitchen like nothing was wrong. Like the world hadn’t cracked at the seams. Like red ribbons and disappearing keys were just part of our ordinary life. They weren’t. And now, the one person who might have had answers was gone. I pulled my jacket on, slid the photo into the inner pocket, and left the house before the sun had a cha