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Chapter Five: The Shadow That Wrote My Name Before Me
I didn't wake up this morning—
Because I never slept to begin with.
I stared at the ceiling, as if waiting for it to collapse.
To end me with its slow descent—
Like drowning in a heavy dream.
But nothing fell.
Only a thought did…
The thought that I was never the one who wrote my name on those notebooks all these years.
I remember how I used to write my name—
Strangely.
In small, hesitant letters, barely legible.
As if ashamed of my identity—
Or of the truth that chased me from behind the ink.
But yesterday…
I found an old notebook in my father's closet, wrapped in damp cloth.
I opened it.
And there it was—my name.
Written in the exact same handwriting.
But dated five years before I was born.
Do you know that feeling?
When you realize the past has been watching you…
Waiting for the moment you break,
Just to say:
"I was the reason."
I was the reason.
The paper wasn't on the table this time.
It was in my pocket—
Though I swear I never put anything there.
On it was written:
> "When I wrote my name,
It wasn't me who wrote it.
And when I thought I was writing the novel…
I was transcribing confessions that hadn't happened yet."
I clenched the paper in my fist.
Tore it apart with my teeth.
But I knew—
It would return.
Because it can't be destroyed.
It only repeats itself,
On different pages.
That evening, I climbed to the rooftop.
The place I used to believe was silent…
Had begun to whisper.
Its silence now had a sound.
I sat on the edge,
Gazing at a city that doesn't know me—
That doesn't know I carry something written about me
Before I ever existed.
I thought I was alone in this.
But when I looked up,
I found a sentence carved into the rooftop wall—
In handwriting I recognized:
> "We are not the first to be written."
Me?
We?
Who is "we"?
Are there others?
Is someone else out there—
Tearing up their story,
Somewhere in the pages of this novel?
The air grew colder.
The night, deeper.
And with every blink,
I felt another page being added somewhere—
Unseen.
At midnight, I found another notebook under my pillow.
I don't know how it got there.
But its first page was blank—
Except for a single line at the bottom:
> "Begin writing page fifty-six, and do not look back in fear."
But I haven't reached page fifty-six yet.
I'm still on page thirty-four…
Or am I already late?
Has the novel begun moving without me?
Or… is someone else writing in my place?
I closed the notebook—
But it didn't close.
And from inside it—
I heard Rayan's voice.
Whisper
ing:
> "I never died."
And I still don't know—
Should I continue?
Or is every word I write
Another death I won't survive?