That night, the nightmare returned.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYFC4i3sPjy
But this time, it didn’t claw its way in with panic or screaming shadows.
This time, it unfolded. Quietly. Almost intimately. Like it knew me.
I felt it before I saw anything — that strange weight pressing down on the room, thick and wrong. My hands were already fisted in the sheets, muscles tense, body curled in defense. Waiting. Dreading. But also… expecting.
It was always the same darkness. Always the same presence. Watching from the edges, just out of reach. Just close enough to feel.
Only this time… I saw something.
Not a face. Not eyes. Just a neck — impossibly pale, as if it hadn’t seen sunlight in years. And right there, glowing faintly beneath the skin, was a mark.
A half-moon.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt9VZWfllEN
Small.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡocJEX53iss
Sharp.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhglhUgBZ2k
Etched into flesh like it belonged there.
It pulsed once — slow, steady. Alive.
And then I heard it.
"Luna."
One word. Whispered like a prayer. Or a memory.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡklRF6ei8lF
The voice was deep, male, too close — curling around me from behind, dragging the air out of my lungs.
I opened my mouth to scream, to move, to fight — but nothing happened. My body didn’t listen.
And then the dark shattered.
Not into light.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwLdUA6cR8D
Into sound.
A girl crying — soft at first, then breaking open into something more violent. Guttural. The kind of grief that made your stomach turn because it was too raw, too young.
She was crouched in the corner of a room I half-recognized. Cold walls. Peeling paint. That awful silence that made you feel like the whole world had already given up on you.
Her hair was long. Brown. Messy. Her arms were wrapped tight around her legs, head buried, shoulders heaving. I couldn’t see her face — didn’t need to.
I knew who she was.
It was me.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGmJWA4wdWy
Years ago.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTwxUEe0rrf
Before all the moving. Before the new names, the foster homes, the lies I’d told myself just to get through.
Then something moved in the shadows.
A hand. Pale. Outstretched.
Not threatening — just steady. Careful. Like it didn’t want to scare her. Like it had done this before.
My younger self didn’t flinch. She looked up — just a flicker of movement — and then everything around us started to dissolve.
That’s when I felt it.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBayXHMtEEc
Again.
That breath — hot, deliberate, ghosting over the back of my neck. The kind of closeness that made your skin crawl because it didn’t belong there. Not in a dream. Not in a memory.
“Zara…”
My name, spoken like something sacred. Possessed. Like whoever — whatever — this was, had been waiting a long time to say it again.
“Zara,” it whispered again, slower this time. Closer. Like it was leaning in.
Then louder. Sharper.
“Zara.”
The world slammed back into place with that name. My name. Ripped from the dream and dragged into reality.
My eyes flew open. I sucked in air like I hadn’t breathed in minutes. My skin was damp, my heartbeat wild.
Emma was leaning over me, eyes wide, hands still on my shoulders. “Zara!” she said firm.
"Zara?" Emma’s voice broke through the fog, tight with concern. "I could hear you screaming from my room—are you okay?"
I wasn’t.
Because that mark — that glowing half-moon on the stranger’s neck — I think I’d seen it before. Somewhere. Somehow.
Or maybe I hadn’t. Maybe my mind was just playing tricks again. Because right now, I couldn’t even put one and one together. I was shaking, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted out, and my brain felt like it had been dunked in ice water. No logic. No grounding. Just fear.
I couldn’t answer. I just stared at her, then toward the far side of the room like something might still be there. Something watching. Hiding. Waiting.
My gaze finally dragged toward the red glow of the alarm clock.
2:00 a.m.
Of course it was.
The hour everything haunts you harder.
Of course it was.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3UzHCtbZ7N
The hour everything haunts you harder.
“I…” My voice came out hoarse, barely a thread. I swallowed, tried again. “I think it was just a nightmare.”
Emma frowned, the kind that said she didn’t buy it but didn’t want to press. “You sounded like you were dying.”
I let out a sharp breath. “Felt like it.”
She hesitated, then perched at the edge of my bed. Her hoodie was half-zipped, and her sleep mask still dangled from one wrist. “Was it the same dream?”
I nodded, slow. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It was worse this time. It—” I stopped.
How the hell was I supposed to explain that I’d just seen myself crying in some memory I didn’t even know I had? That someone — or something — had touched me, known my name, whispered it like it belonged to me in a way I didn’t understand?
That mark.
That goddamn glowing mark.
I pressed my palms against my face. “I need water.”
“I’ll get it,” she said softly, already standing. “Do you want anything else? Meds?”
“No. Just… thanks.”
She disappeared into the hallway, and the second she was gone, the air felt heavier. Thicker. Like whatever presence had been in the dream was still here, just outside my reach.
I sank back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. That wasn’t just a dream. Not like before. There was something different in the way it felt — not symbolic or made-up. Real. Like I’d touched something buried too deep, and now it was clawing its way back up.
And that mark.
That mark.
I’d seen it before. Not in a book. Not in a dream. On someone. A long time ago, maybe. A flash. A glimpse.
But where?
The door creaked as Emma returned with a glass. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked again, gentler now, like she already knew I wasn’t.
I took the glass with both hands. “I don’t know.”
She gave a small nod and backed off, letting me breathe.
The second the door closed behind her, I brought the glass to my lips — but paused.
My reflection caught in the darkened window across the room. My eyes looked hollow. Foreign. And behind them…8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMNKTdxNiAB
A flicker.
Just a flicker.
Like someone had been standing there.
Watching.
Waiting.
By the time morning came, I hadn’t really slept. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, blinking slow and shallow, waiting for the light to make the room feel normal again.
It didn’t.
The sun was out, sure — bright and overly confident as it poured through the blinds. But nothing about the day felt clean. Not when I dragged myself into the bathroom and caught sight of my face in the mirror. Pale. Eyes bruised at the edges. Like something had been carved out of me overnight.
I splashed water on my skin. Twice. Then again, harder. As if it would scrub away whatever was still clinging to me.
That mark.
The moon-shaped glow. The figure’s voice. The word it said—
Luna.
I gripped the sink.
What did that even mean? Why had it said that like I was supposed to know?
The door creaked open behind me.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiEkRsl6mDe
"I'm going to class, are you sure you're going to be okay?" Emma said from the door, one hand still on the frame like she wasn’t convinced.
"Yeah," I said, forcing the words through my dry throat. "I also have a session with Dr. Angela. Probably... that’ll help."
She gave me a look — not pity, not concern exactly, just the kind of quiet worry you can’t hide from people who know you. Then she nodded and stepped out, her footsteps fading down the hall.
Back in my bedroom I Just sat on the edge of my bed, knees pressed together, palms flat against the mattress. Breathing in, holding it. Letting it out slow. I didn’t want to go to that session. But I also didn’t want to be alone.
So I went.
The walk to the wellness center felt longer than it was, the sun far too bright for how raw I felt. My skin crawled under my hoodie like the air itself was too sharp, like something unseen was watching again.
By the time I stepped into Dr. Angela’s office, I felt stretched thin. Like if anyone touched me wrong, even with words, I’d snap.
She greeted me the way she always did — calm, composed, that faint, practiced smile that therapists wore like armor.
“Zara,” she said, gesturing for me to sit. “Rough night?”
I sat down. The leather chair was cold. Too cold.
I didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the little ceramic turtle on her desk — the one that always faced me.
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpvky1CMbQi
“I had the dream again, but this time I saw me — younger me,” I finally said, my voice low.
I didn’t go into the full story. Not exactly. I told her about the dream, the girl crying, the stranger’s hand reaching out.
But I skipped the part where it felt too real and some weird stuff.
Skipped how I knew it wasn’t just a dream. How it felt like memory, or warning, or both.
Because let’s be honest — the moment I start talking about symbols and voices calling me Luna, I know what happens next. She starts jotting down notes with that look. That tilted head, soft-voiced concern. The one that says: delusional, stress-induced hallucinations, maybe even trauma response.
I didn’t need another label. God knows I’ve had enough already.
So I sat there, pretending I was just tired. That it was just a nightmare. That everything was fine.
Even though nothing was.
Dr. Angela watched me for a long second, like she could tell I was holding something back. But she didn’t push.
"You been taking the medication I prescribed for you?" she asked, her voice calm, unreadable.
"Yes," I said, staring just past her shoulder — obviously lying.
Honestly, this whole therapy thing wasn’t my vibe. When I told my mom about the nightmares, she insisted I go. Booked the sessions, paid for them herself — which, knowing how hard she works, made me feel even worse for not taking it seriously.
But truth is… I’m not built for this.
The medication tasted bitter, and no one tells you that after it wears off, you're just left with the same crap — only sleepier. Like they really think one little pill is going to stop my brain from doing its usual “let’s-make-Zara-feel-like-she’s-losing-it” routine.
No thanks.
I usually just stuck to the sleeping pills. At least they knocked me out without the added “let’s unpack your trauma” bonus. No hallucinations, no memories from foster homes I barely remember, no glowing marks on strangers’ necks.
Just silence. Black, quiet, peaceful silence.
And that, honestly? That was enough for me.
Dr. Angela didn’t call me out on the lie. She just nodded slowly and scribbled something into her notebook — probably some coded phrase like “Patient in denial” or “Avoidant tendencies escalating.”
They love writing things down. Like if they log it hard enough, it becomes real.
“I can see you’re tired,” she said eventually, her pen pausing. “You’ve been through a lot, Zara.”
I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. Classic. The soft-voice sympathy line.
“I’m not tired,” I muttered. “Just bored.”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “Bored?”
“Yeah. Of talking about the same thing every week. I get it — dreams mean something, trauma leaves marks, yada yada. But I’m not sure what good it’s doing, digging around in my head like it’s a crime scene.”
She was quiet again. I hated that. The silence. Like she was giving me space to think, but all it really did was make me squirm in it.
Finally, she spoke. “You mentioned you saw a younger version of yourself this time. That’s new. What do you think she was doing there?”
“I don’t know,” I said too fast. Then, before I could stop myself — “She looked scared.”
And for a moment, something cracked.
Because I remembered the way the little girl’s shoulders had curled in, how her hair had shielded her face like she didn’t want to be seen. How the air in the room had felt cold in that dream — not just the physical kind of cold, but the kind that settles in your bones and makes you feel… forgotten.
I swallowed hard.
“She didn’t say anything,” I added, quieter now. “But it felt like… like she was waiting for something. Or someone.”
Dr. Angela nodded, this time more gently. “Sometimes, our younger selves show up to remind us of what we haven’t faced yet.”
I looked away, jaw clenched. I hated that that sentence made sense.
“Maybe next time,” she continued, “instead of pulling away… you could try stepping closer to her.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Because that always goes well in horror movies.”
But the truth?8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiFJ1371vqB
Something in me was already wondering what would happen if I did.
The session ended with the usual: her telling me to keep a journal, me nodding like I would, and both of us pretending this was working.
Outside, the air hit sharp. Cold and dry, like the world was trying to slap the feelings out of me. I pulled my hoodie tighter and crossed the courtyard back toward campus, hoping no one would notice the zombie-girl expression I was probably wearing.
The place was alive again — students shouting across the grass, coffee cups clutched like survival tools, late people sprinting with backpacks bouncing against their sides.
Normal.
I wanted normal.
I walked faster, head down, trying to shake off the session, the dream, all of it. My next lecture was in fifteen minutes. Then the evening session at Kai's place.
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