Sleep refused to come that night.
The second letter lay open beside me, its words repeating in my head like a warning I couldn't silence.
You trusted the wrong person.
I stared at the sentence until the ink blurred. I had read it so many times that I almost expected new words to appear. But they never did.
Morning crept in through my curtains, pale and quiet, yet my chest still felt heavy. The box of letters sat on my desk, untouched since yesterday, like it was waiting patiently for me to return.
I wasn't sure if opening another letter meant I was searching for answers… or walking deeper into something I couldn't escape.
Still, I stood up.
My bare feet touched the cold floor as I walked toward the desk. My heart beat faster with every step, like it already knew what waited for me inside that box.
I lifted the lid slowly.
The envelopes were arranged neatly, just like before. Each one carried my name in handwriting that looked painfully familiar. My handwriting.
My fingers hovered above them before settling on the third envelope. The paper felt slightly rough under my touch, and for a moment, I hesitated.
"Why would I write these to myself?" I whispered.
The question lingered in the silent room.
I slid my finger beneath the seal and carefully opened it. The envelope released a faint scent, something nostalgic that made my chest tighten, though I couldn't explain why.
Inside was another folded letter.
My hands trembled as I unfolded the page.
If you've opened this letter, it means you still don't know the truth about your death.
My breath caught in my throat.
I swallowed hard and continued reading.
You thought it was an accident. Everyone did. That's what they wanted you to believe.
A dull ache formed behind my eyes. Accident. That was what everyone told me. That was what I remembered… or at least what I thought I remembered.
Flashes of hospital lights flickered in my mind. I heard distant voices calling my name. I felt pain — sharp and sudden — before everything faded into darkness.
But something about those memories felt incomplete.
Like pieces were missing.
I tightened my grip on the letter.
You weren't supposed to die that day. You weren't even supposed to be there.
My stomach twisted.
Images tried to surface in my mind — leaving home, checking my phone, rushing somewhere I couldn't clearly remember. There was someone with me… or maybe someone I was going to meet.
But their face remained blurred, like my memory refused to let me see it.
I forced myself to keep reading.
You went there because someone you loved asked you to.
My heartbeat quickened painfully.
Loved.
Faces flickered through my thoughts — friends, family, people I trusted. Yet none of them felt clear enough to settle in my memory. Each face appeared only to dissolve seconds later.
I turned the page slightly, noticing another paragraph waiting below.
You ignored the signs. The late messages. The sudden kindness. The secrets hidden behind their smile.
A chill spread across my skin.
Sudden kindness.
Had someone changed before my death? Had someone started treating me differently?
The harder I tried to remember, the stronger the pressure built inside my head.
I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to breathe evenly.
When I opened them again, the words on the paper seemed heavier.
You wanted to believe they cared about you. That was your biggest mistake.
My vision blurred with tears, but I quickly wiped them away. Crying wouldn't give me answers.
Then I noticed something else inside the envelope.
Another folded sheet.
Confusion crept in as I pulled it out. The paper was thicker than the letter. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it carefully.
It was a printed list.
My funeral guest list.
My chest tightened as I stared at the rows of names. Family members. Friends. People from school. Even acquaintances I barely spoke to.
I scanned each name slowly, my pulse echoing in my ears.
Then my eyes stopped.
One name was circled in red ink.
The circle was uneven, almost aggressive, like it had been drawn in anger… or desperation.
My breathing became shallow as I stared at it. The name felt heavier than the rest, pressing against my chest like a hidden truth waiting to explode.
Because the name circled on my funeral guest list belonged to someone who held my hand the night before I died.
Someone who smiled at me and promised everything would be okay.
My fingers shook as I flipped the guest list over.
Three words were written across the back in bold, messy handwriting.
Trust no one.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs as those words sank in.
And then…
I heard it.
A faint sound behind me.
My entire body stiffened.
Another step followed.
Slow.
Careful.
Footsteps.