In my past life…., my world was defined by the scent of vanilla-scented candles and the rhythmic scratching of a fountain pen on high-quality paper. I wasn't just a student; I was a machine fueled by ambition and black coffee.
I remember my morning routine vividly. I'd wake up at 4:30 AM in my small, tidy apartment—the kind of place where every book was alphabetized. I'd spend two hours studying before school even started. To me, being first in my class wasn't about ego; it was about the math of life. High grades led to scholarships, which led to a high-paying corporate job, which led to the ultimate goal: financial freedom.
"Morning, ❑❑ ! Did you see the new chapter of that manga last night?" my best friend, Hina, would ask as I walked into the classroom.
I'd pull my chair out, already opening my math workbook. "I read it during my fifteen-minute dinner break. The pacing is slow, but the art is improving. Now, help me check this derivative."
Hina would sigh, leaning over my desk. "You're the only person I know who treats Shonen Jump like a business case study and calculus like a hobby. You're going to be a CEO or a hermit, I swear."
"I'll be a CEO with a library," I'd retort with a small, rare smirk.
After the school ended I said my goodbye to my friends and headed to the library.
The library was where I truly lived. I held a part-time job there, shelving books just so I could be the first to see new arrivals. I loved the weight of a thick novel in my hands—the way a story could transport me away from the pressure of being the school's top scholar. I was a girl who lived a thousand lives through pages while meticulously planning my own.
The day of the accident, I had just finished a grueling six-hour study session for the national mocks. I was exhausted but exhilarated; I knew I had nailed the practice exams.
"Goodnight, Mr. Sato," I called out to the old librarian.
"Going home, are you? Don't trip over your own brain on the way out," he joked.
I walked out into the cool evening air, my heavy backpack a comforting weight against my spine. I touched it and muttered "Just two more years, then real life begins.". I was crossing the main intersection, my mind occupied with a list of vocabulary words I needed to memorize before bed.
I remember the sudden, violent glare of white light. The screech of brakes sounded like a scream. Then the world tilted. The sound of my own breath was replaced by a screech of metal on asphalt. I felt a thick stench of scorched sulfur and melting chemicals that felt hot in my throat.
Pain didn't come immediately, just a profound sense of confusion. There was a strange, heavy stillness. I remember lying on the cold ground, staring at a single streetlamp. It flickered. I have a mock exam tomorrow, I thought, a desperate, irrational panic rising in my chest. I can't get blood on my textbooks, I thought as I lay on the cold pavement.
Then, the sirens. The red and blue lights pulsed against the dark sky, rhythmic and frantic. I felt hands on me, the sharp prick of a needle, and the muffled, panicked shouting of paramedics.
"Stay with us! Can you hear me? Keep your eyes open!"
But my voice wouldn't work. I tried. I really tried. I wanted to tell them I wasn't finished yet—I hadn't even graduated! But the cold was faster than the ambulance. The warmth was leaving my body, replaced by a heavy, numbing cold. It started at my fingertips and crawled up my arms, a heavy, velvet darkness that eventually muffled the sirens and the shouting. The steady beep—beep—beep of the heart monitor began to falter, the intervals stretching into agonizing silences until they merged into a single, terrifyingly long note. Like a candle caught in a sudden draft, my vision flickered once and then was snuffed out.
The world didn't fade to grey; it snapped to black. No more books, no more exams, no more future. I was a closed book, my story ending mid-sentence on a cold street corner. Until the silence broke. It wasn't a siren or a monitor. It was thin, rhythmic, and piercing. It was a child's cry... and it was coming from my own throat.