February 5th

Dear Diary

I wake up every day like I've already lived it. 
Sometimes it feels like I'm sinking into something cold and quiet, and no one even sees me go under.

I'm scared................

***

Someone was watching her.

Not from across the street. Not from a car window. Not from the shadowed mouth of an alleyway.

From inside her.

Relly didn't flinch. She didn't stop walking. The sidewalk under her boots pulsed with the memory of sleepless nights. Her coat clung to her narrow shoulders like wet cloth, though there was no rain. Her long, dark brown hair was coiled into a loose bun, strands escaping and sticking to her damp neck. The air was thick and stale. Everything felt wrong.

Her cheekbones were drawn, as if sleep had abandoned her for weeks. Her eyes—almond-shaped, hazel and rimmed with exhaustion—flickered from shadow to shadow as she adjusted her scarf with trembling fingers. The motion was smooth, practiced and performed.  Yet, she kept walking despite it all.

A man sat at a bus stop, gaunt and unmoving, his mouth slightly ajar as he stared into a place that didn't exist. Behind her, a stray cat with matted grey fur limped toward a drain. Somewhere, a dog howled and didn't stop. Her boots slapped the pavement too sharply. Her breath scraped her throat like static. Every step felt misaligned and was half a beat behind reality.

There was no scream. No crash. No chasing shadow. Yet her spine coiled like a wick burning from both ends. Her body braced for an impact that never came.

That was the cruelty of it.

It hummed beneath her skin, through her breath and behind her blinks. It was like her bones had become a hallway for something else to crawl through. Something wrong.

Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. She didn't rush to check. Her fingers already knew what was waiting. She pulled it out anyway. A text message from Mom.

Mom: you didn't forget my birthday, did you

Lowercase. No punctuation. Casual, weaponized.

Her stomach knotted. Not out of guilt, but something denser. Something closer to shame. She didn't forget. She just didn't want to remember, and now the moment was already soured.

Another message came in before she could respond.

Mom: still no call. not even a text. what kind of daughter...

Relly shoved the phone into her pocket and kept walking, not bothering to read the rest of the message. She would respond in a minute. She just needed to breathe. But she could already hear the tone her mother would use when she finally called. That soft, quiet disapproval. No raised voice. No direct name-calling. Just disappointment, stretched out across every sentence.

And then—

She did it. But she didn't feel herself doing it.

Her hand moved on its own. Her fingers typed with perfect ease. Her lips curved into a practiced, soft smile that she didn't remember choosing.

happy birthday mum. I've been swamped this morning but I'll call you on break. love you always. hope today's beautiful x

She hit send and blinked.

The message stared back. Polished. Sweet. Empty.

Relly looked at the message like someone else sent it.

Maybe because someone did.

Relly stopped walking. The air stilled. The morning held its breath. That text message stuck in her brain like a splinter.

The tension morphed. Gathered in her temples like a swarm and her vision blurred slightly, with the corners darkening. Without any other option, she walked again. Carried forward like a puppet reset into motion.

Hope Haven loomed ahead. The NGO's paint peeled. Its slogan—For every child, a future—was sun-bleached into irony. The glass doors wore fingerprints like bruises. As usual, the air inside smelled of lemon cleaner and damp paper.

"Good morning, Laurel," chirped Bimpe at the front desk. Her face was round, framed by a tight puff of dark curls. Her lipstick faded to the edges of her mouth, and a large chipped mug of Lipton trembled slightly in her hand.

Relly mustered a smile that felt tight and controlled. "Good morning. Hi. Nice earrings."

Bimpe's face lit up. Her earrings dangled—plastic gold hoops with tiny red beads. "Thanks. Got them at the corner shop. I was actually worried they looked cheap. That's a relief."]

Relly nodded, though her ears buzzed. Bimpe's words stretched, slow, dragging like cloth caught in a closing door.

"You good?" Bimpe asked, after a beat of silence.

Relly opened her mouth. A pause. Then another tight smile. "Always."

A lie wrapped in silk.

She walked past the front desk, down the narrow hallway. The buzzing fluorescent lights overhead shuddered like dying insects. The walls wore crooked frames of smiling children like cracked masks.

Her office door groaned. The handle stuck, always did.

Inside was a cluttered desk scattered with forms and snack wrappers. A rust-stained kettle sulked on a shelf. A crooked clock ticked half a second too slow. The air conditioner clicked but didn't blow.

She dropped into her chair. The computer screen stared at her. Blank. Black. Her reflection glared back. The buzzing started again. Not the phone. 

Her mind.

It was quiet, but full. Like water pressed against glass. She pressed her fingers into the desk edge. The pressure helped. A little. Her reflection in the black computer screen stared back. She didn't like what she saw. She looked clean yet empty.

Then her reflection moved.

And moved too soon.

She blinked. It caught up. She felt something shift. Like a zipper being pulled. Like a mask being slid into place. Anxiety crept slowly through her bones.

The office phone rang suddenly. She jumped. A soft pull away from her shaken distress.

Bimpe chirped from the phone. "The boy from the shelter is here. Jerry's not in. Can you handle the kid? His social worker's trying to park his car somewhere in the lot."

Relly's voice emerged. Calm. Smooth. Unfamiliar. "I'll be right there. It's no problem at all."

"You sure? You just stepped in. Don't you want to rest for a minute?"

A sudden smile crept in. Bright. Hollow. Relly gave a quick glance at her reflection on the blank computer screen. "I'm sure."

The call ended quickly. Her hand remained on the desk. Fingernails dug deep, pale half-moons in her palm.

She stood. Her legs remembered movement before she did. Each joint stiff, marionette-like. She rounded the corner and saw the boy on the bench. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. He wore a backpack that looked like it never got washed. His brown eyes darted upward, wary but hopeful.

"Are you Miss Laurel?"

She opened her mouth to answer. Her voice didn't come out. But her lips parted anyway. "Of course, but you can call me Relly. Come with me."

Her throat felt stuffed with cotton. Her attempt at a warm smile seemed to appease the teenage boy as he hurried behind her eagerly.

"Just need the bathroom first," she added, mechanical. Another well-layered smile. "I'll meet you in the conference room. It's just straight ahead. Last room. You can't miss it."

It took only a minute to escape the conversation and rush toward the bathroom. She stared into the bathroom mirror. The light above flickered, stuttered, settled.

Her face was pale and even. Not a blemish. Not a sign.

But her eyes—

Dead.

Still.

Her reflection smiled. Calm. Beatific. Relly didn't.

She gasped.

And then it was gone.

Stiffly, she walked back. The hallway felt longer now. Every step echoed too loud. The building hummed with fake warmth. Her mouth was dry. In the conference room, the boy sat beside a man with greying temples and hollow eyes—the social worker. His tie was crooked. His left hand trembled faintly as he held a clipboard and pen.

"Hello. Good morning," she liltingly said. Too cheerful. Too rehearsed. She didn't remember saying it until the words had already left her mouth.

She didn't plan to speak that way. She glanced at the office window next to her, only half-aware.

Her reflection smiled again.

Not just her usual half-smile. Not tired, not blank. It smiled directly at her. Not copying. Not delayed. Just looking at her like a portrait of the person she was supposed to be.

The other her stood upright. Immaculate. Radiant. As if the weight of this world never touched her. And her lips moved.

Three words. No sound.

I've got it.

Relly stumbled. Blinked.

The reflection reset. Now it mirrored her. Head tilted. Blank. Passive. Just glass again.

She looked around. No one noticed her panic. No one ever did. The boy read a pamphlet. The man checked his pen.

She walked. She breathed. She smiled.

But it wasn't her walking. It wasn't her breathing.

And somewhere, inside the folds of her mind, the real version of herself folded smaller. Quieter.

Because someone else had taken over.

***

Hello. hi hi.

I bet you are wondering what is going on with Relly. But don't worry, there's so much to unfold.

Before then, I'm curious about your names. I'm Jasmine and it's a pleasure to meet you.

xoxo

jasmine Stars