Anya stopped trusting reflections.
Now she has stopped trusting her name.
"Anya" felt like a jacket she'd put on in the dark — it fit, but something inside was itching. Familiar in the wrong places.
She hadn't slept properly in three nights. Not since the photo burned. Not since she cut her bangs.
They were growing back.
Too fast.
She cornered Midori in the locker hall between fifth and sixth period.
"Who's Veronika?"
Midori's hands twitched. "Where did you hear that name?"
"It was on a note. Someone said she knows what happened to the sixth desk."
Midori looked behind her — then behind Anya.
"You're not supposed to say her name."
"Why?"
"Because if you say it, she hears you."
"Who is she?"
Midori lowered her voice to a whisper sharp enough to cut:
"She's the ghost who wants to stay forgotten."
That night, the dorm lights flickered at 12:00 a.m.
Exactly midnight.
Anya heard something shift behind the closet door.
She didn't move.
Then a voice, right at her ear, as if it had come from inside her pillow:
"You used to say it like a prayer."
Anya spun, heart leaping. Nothing there.
She stood. Walked to the mirror.
The cloth she had taped down was folded neatly on the floor.
Written on it in lipstick:
"Say it again."
The next morning, there was a new girl in her class.
No one acknowledged her.
Not the teacher. Not the other students.
But her desk — the sixth desk, the one that had been empty — was no longer empty.
The girl sat with perfect posture. Blonde hair tied back. Eyes like stormlight behind cracked-glass lenses.
Her name was not on the roll call.
Anya stared.
The girl smiled, just slightly.
"You look different," she said softly.
"I liked you better when you didn't know who you were."
They spoke again during cleaning duty.
The blonde girl didn't sweep. She stood by the window.
"You're the one who said my name first," she said.
"Veronika."
The window cracked.
The glass didn't shatter. It just hummed — a low, vibrating sound like a tuning fork in Anya's jaw.
Veronika didn't react. She tilted her head and whispered:
"You Fucking idiot."
"Excuse me?"
"You said it again."
Later, on the rooftop, Anya found her again.
Veronika sat with her legs hanging over the edge, cigarette glowing faint between two fingers. The school didn't allow smoking — not that Anya ever remembered Veronika attending orientation.
Anya sat beside her.
Neither spoke for a while.
"Are you alive?" Anya finally asked.
"Some days."
"Are you one of the ghosts?"
"Define 'ghost.'"
"Someone who haunts."
Veronika exhaled a line of smoke.
"Then yes. I haunt. I'm not dead, though."
"What are you, then?"
Veronika smiled without humor.
"I'm what you forgot when you chose to survive."
Anya's breath caught.
"I didn't choose anything."
Veronika looked at her. Really looked. Eyes sharp enough to see the cracks under skin.
"You did. You chose to become her. The version of you that wouldn't break."
"I'm not broken."
"No," she said. "You're fucking glassware."
They sat in silence again. Wind played with their bangs.
Then, softer:
"I remember you," Veronika said.
"What do you remember?"
"You never looked at me like that before."
"Like what?"
"Like you want to kiss me just to see if I'm real."
Anya flushed.
"...Would it help?"
Veronika's eyes burned like memories set on fire.
"Try it and find out."
Anya leaned in.
Just before their lips met—
Veronika vanished.
In her dorm that night, Anya checked the mirror again.
Instead of her reflection, words were written in condensation:
"Don't fall for a ghost who remembers more than you."
And beneath it:
"She's been waiting too long."