Room 707

Journal 1

 

At Teito University’s dormitory, there’s a room that stays unoccupied all year long. Most students avoid it when walking past. They're too afraid to even stop for a second to look at the plaque because last year, Haruko Asai committed suicide. I never met her because I transferred here just one semester after the incident, but since I heard, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. There’s something about her story that made me feel uneasy, so I’m writing it down in a journal my mom gave me because she says it's good for young people to express themselves.

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“701, 702, 703, 704, 705, 706, 707..” I counted slowly as I passed the corresponding rooms on the seventh floor of Teito’s dormitory. The suitcase wheels hummed lowly as I pulled it across the linoleum floors.

“708..” Yes, this was my room for the next semester. I stopped in front of the door, tracing the numbers on the plaque. They were slightly raised, and underneath, there was even braille for blind students.

“707?!” a deep voice remarked.

I turned to see a boy around average height, maybe five foot nine. I hadn’t noticed him there before. He kind of just appeared. He had bleached blonde wavy hair, round almond eyes, and thin lips. He was the total opposite of my shoulder-length jet-black hair, rectangular glasses, and striking eyes.

 

“Is there something wrong with the room?” I asked.

“You haven’t heard about room 707?” I wanted to say obviously, not because I wouldn’t have asked that question, but instead, I shook my head, meeting his dark eyes.

He motioned me to come closer, and I obliged despite there not being anyone else in the hallway with us. His breath tickled my ear, but I bared with the feeling as he whispered to me. “They say a girl took her own life in this room, but the school covered it up. She was getting bullied, and they did nothing to help her. No one wanted the room after that, so it’s abandoned.”

It seemed like a silly little ghost story seniors tell to freshmen to scare them. I didn’t really believe him, but I decided to entertain the idea.

“ I heard no one came to pick up her stuff. It’s exactly the same way as it was when she was alive,” he continued.

“Not even her family?” I presumed.

“Nope.” He replied.

Isolated in life and death. “I used to see her around. I didn’t know she felt like that. My mom almost transferred me out of there. She’s worried, I would do the same thing,”

“I don’t think either of us are at risk because people who take their lives are mentally weak. No matter how hard things get, you shouldn’t give up. I don’t think anyone should feel bad because…” I turned to look at the 707’s door. It was a little dusty, and one of the seven was crooked. “I mean, she wanted to die right?”

“Ice cold.” he grinned kinda sly.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Oh shoot, sorry. My name is Keita, and you?”

“Yuki.”

“I’ll see you around, I gotta finish unpacking.”

I waved and watched him hurry down the corridor.

​

Journal 2

 

It’s been a few weeks since then, but I found an old yearbook. Haruko Asai was a member of the anime club. I scan the old photograph. She has big eyes and black hair pinned behind her ear. She has a bright smile. Had. Had a bright smile, I mean. She’s kind of cute. What would make a girl like her want to kill herself? Didn’t she have any friends?

I asked some other students around, and apparently, she quit being a member weeks before she died. I guess she just stopped being into anime? I wonder if she had a problem with one of the members there… It’s hard to get information because no one wants to say too much about her, and they react weirdly whenever I ask about her.

Not much has changed since the first week. No one seems interested in making friends, or maybe they’re avoiding me. I think it’s because they’re too afraid to talk to me because I live close to the room. I don’t even see Keita much anymore, so we haven’t gotten any closer, but I don’t really care. It's easier to focus on school without distractions. I’m at the top of my class, and that’s all that matters to me. That’s what I came for.

My days usually consisted of class, homework, a shower then sleep. I don’t really have a reason to leave my room except to go to the bathroom and get food from the cafeteria. Lately, it’s been a little hard to sleep at night. I toss and turn, or I’ll just stare at the ceiling. Sometimes, my mind wanders, and I think about room 707. I always have to walk past it to go anywhere. I’m pretty sure it’s just a rumor to scare the freshman. Everyone’s so superstitious. Even if she did kill herself in the room, who would want to spend their afterlife haunting a college dorm?

 

Journal 3

 

Getting to sleep has been increasingly difficult. This room is always eerily silent. I know no one is in the room next door, but sometimes I hear noises that sound like someone is moving things around or shuffling. Maybe the dormitory has a mice problem. The sounds make me nervous, so I put on my headphones and turn up the music to block it out.

 

Journal 4

 

I woke up in the middle of the night because I had to pee. I opened the door slowly. The light switch is at the other end of the hall, so I won't be able to turn on the lights. I stare at the door, there's no one in there. I tell myself. But for some reason, I’m terrified to walk past it at night. I muster up all my courage and take some deep breaths. The light switch is approximately 400 meters away.

 

I run like a madman towards the switch and slap it hard. The lights flicker a bit and buzz before turning on - but they always do that. It’s an older building. Not everything’s been renovated. There’s nothing in the hallway. I take a sigh of relief and enter the bathroom to pee.

 

After I finished, I stood in front of the mirror. I looked at my hair. It's grown longer since the first day and messier. I push it out of my face so it doesn’t get wet when I splash my face with cold water.

 

As I leave the bathroom, I leave the lights on. I hold my head as I groggily walk back. I’m so tired that the cold water doesn't help. I don’t even feel like I'm alive. As I pass room 707, from the corner of my eye, I see something. There’s long black hair coming from underneath the door. It flows outward like a snake towards me, like it wants to grab me. I turn to see it, but there's nothing there…. The door looks ominous and as barren as usual. The hair disappeared or maybe it was never there to begin with. I rub my eyes, I need to get more sleep. I shut the door to my room and sleep.

 

Journal 5

 

I bought another lock for my door, a flashlight, and some sleeping pills. I just feel like I need another lock. It relaxes me to be in my room. I feel more comfortable there. It’s been a week since I thought I saw the hair. The melatonin has been helping a lot, actually.

 

I slept longer. I can’t hear the shuffling of rats in the other room. I sleep for the whole night. My mom scolds me when I call her not to take them because they’re habit-forming. She worries I won’t be able to sleep without them.

I don’t take them tonight because I’m worried I’d have to take pills till I'm an old man just to get some shut-eye. I close my eyes and lie closest to the wall. I sleep pretty peacefully until I hear a door slam and open repeatedly. I sit up in my bed suddenly. It sounds like it's coming from room 707. I rush over to my door to see what’s making the noise. I grab my flashlight, but no one’s there, and the door is not moving at all.

Journal 6

 

After that, I decided to keep taking my melatonin. I drift into a deep sleep, but I can feel my body, more than usual, slowing down. I feel my arms, my legs, still like a statue. My chest rises and falls slowly. The bed sheets feel a little scratchier today. I’m lying on a bed that’s in a room next to the allegedly unoccupied room 707. That’s in an even bigger dormitory that’s part of a larger college campus, that’s in Kyoto, that’s in Japan.

 

I know my eyes are closed, but for some reason, I can see a black spot that looks like mold on the edge of the foot of the bed. It’s growing. There are strands of hair sticking out. They grow slowly and slowly. The spot of mold grows bigger, and the hair grows longer and longer until a head passes through the wall. Very eerily, with a repeating clicking sound, a hand grasps the foot of the bed and slowly starts moving toward me.

 

I’m scared, I try to move, but I can’t. My body just won’t let me. She reveals her reddened eyes. Her skin is pale, and it feels so cold it burns my skin when she grabs my foot. I wriggle my toes. This is a dream. This isn’t real. Her neck is twisted, and there are bruises on it and redness around it. Slowly, she climbs on my bed and onto my body. Her nails dig into me, and I yell out, but there’s no sound. She straddles me and smiles. Her head hovers over mine, and she opens her mouth, revealing large teeth.

 

My crotch becomes wet, and my whole body feels warm. My clothes stick to me, and my whole bed becomes covered in piss. This seems to amuse her. She smiles wickedly and lets out a shrill laughter.

“That’s it. Despair for me.” She grabs my face. “More, More, more”

She lies next to me, “I am you, and you are me..” she whispers in my ear before getting up and returning back through the spot of mold to go back to room 707. My room has strands of hair all over the room.

 

Journal 7

 

𝗜⃥ 𝗵⃥𝘢̸𝘃⃥𝘦̸ 𝘯̸𝗼⃥𝘵̸ 𝘭̸𝗲⃥𝘧̸𝘁⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘺̸ 𝘳̸𝗼⃥𝘰̸𝗺⃥ 𝗶⃥𝘯̸ 𝟩̸𝟮⃥ 𝗵⃥𝘰̸𝘂⃥𝘳̸𝘀⃥,̸ 𝘯̸𝗼⃥𝘵̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗲⃥𝘢̸𝘁⃥,̸ 𝘴̸𝗹⃥𝘦̸𝗲⃥𝘱̸,⃥ 𝗴⃥𝘰̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝗯⃥𝘢̸𝘁⃥𝘩̸𝗿⃥𝘰̸𝗼⃥𝘮̸ 𝘰̸𝗿⃥ 𝗰⃥𝘭̸𝗮⃥𝘴̸𝘀⃥.̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘩̸𝗮⃥𝘷̸𝗲⃥ 𝗻⃥𝘰̸𝘁⃥ 𝘀⃥𝘭̸𝗲⃥𝘱̸𝘁⃥ 𝗮⃥𝘵̸ 𝘢̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘣̸𝗲⃥𝘤̸𝗮⃥𝘶̸𝘀⃥𝘦̸ 𝘐̸'⃥𝘮̸ 𝘢̸𝗳⃥𝘳̸𝗮⃥𝘪̸𝗱⃥ 𝘀⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥’̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘤̸𝗼⃥𝘮̸𝗲⃥ 𝗳⃥𝘰̸𝗿⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸ 𝘪̸𝗻⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘺̸ 𝘴̸𝗹⃥𝘦̸𝗲⃥𝘱̸.⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘢̸𝘆⃥𝘣̸𝗲⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝘀⃥𝘩̸𝗼⃥𝘶̸𝗹⃥𝘥̸ 𝘫̸𝘂⃥𝘴̸𝘁⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝘆⃥𝘴̸𝗲⃥𝘭̸𝗳⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗵⃥𝘢̸𝘁⃥’̸𝘀⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘩̸𝗮⃥𝘵̸ 𝘴̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗱⃥𝘦̸𝘀⃥𝘱̸𝗮⃥𝘪̸𝗿⃥.̸

 

Journal 8

 

𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝘁⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘮̸𝗲⃥.̸𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸ 𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘦̸.⃥.̸

 

Journal 9

 

Scribbles

 

Journal 10

 

𝗜⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸ 𝘯̸𝗼⃥𝘵̸ 𝘭̸𝗲⃥𝘵̸ 𝘩̸𝗲⃥𝘳̸ 𝘵̸𝗮⃥𝘬̸𝗲⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘺̸ 𝘭̸𝗶⃥𝘧̸𝗲⃥ 𝗯⃥𝘦̸𝗰⃥𝘢̸𝘂⃥𝘴̸𝗲⃥ 𝘀⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸𝗼⃥ 𝘀⃥𝘵̸𝘂⃥𝘱̸𝗶⃥𝘥̸ 𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘥̸ 𝘵̸𝗵⃥𝘳̸𝗲⃥𝘸̸ 𝘩̸𝗲⃥𝘳̸𝘀⃥ 𝗮⃥𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘺̸.⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘰̸𝘄⃥’̸𝘀⃥ 𝗶⃥𝘵̸ 𝘮̸𝘆⃥ 𝗳⃥𝘢̸𝘂⃥𝘭̸𝘁⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘩̸𝗮⃥𝘵̸ 𝘴̸𝘁⃥𝘶̸𝗽⃥𝘪̸𝗱⃥ 𝗯⃥𝘪̸𝘁⃥𝘤̸𝗵⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘪̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸𝗲⃥𝘥̸ 𝘩̸𝗲⃥𝘳̸𝘀⃥𝘦̸𝗹⃥𝘧̸.⃥ 𝗜⃥’̸𝘃⃥𝘦̸ 𝘥̸𝗼⃥𝘯̸𝗲⃥ 𝗻⃥𝘰̸𝘁⃥𝘩̸𝗶⃥𝘯̸𝗴⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘳̸𝗼⃥𝘯̸𝗴⃥.̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘬̸𝗲⃥𝘦̸𝗽⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘺̸𝘀⃥𝘦̸𝗹⃥𝘧̸ 𝘢̸𝗹⃥𝘪̸𝘃⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗶⃥𝘵̸𝗵⃥ 𝘀⃥𝘮̸𝗮⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗮⃥𝘮̸𝗼⃥𝘶̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝘀⃥ 𝗼⃥𝘧̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘵̸𝗲⃥𝘳̸ 𝘸̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸𝗻⃥ 𝗶⃥𝘵̸ 𝘳̸𝗮⃥𝘪̸𝗻⃥𝘴̸ 𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘥̸ 𝘧̸𝗼⃥𝘰̸𝗱⃥.̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘩̸𝗮⃥𝘷̸𝗲⃥ 𝗲⃥𝘷̸𝗲⃥𝘳̸𝘆⃥𝘵̸𝗵⃥𝘪̸𝗻⃥𝘨̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘯̸𝗲⃥𝘦̸𝗱⃥ 𝗶⃥𝘯̸ 𝘮̸𝘆⃥ 𝗿⃥𝘰̸𝗼⃥𝘮̸.⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝘀⃥𝘩̸𝗶⃥𝘵̸ 𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘥̸ 𝘱̸𝗶⃥𝘴̸𝘀⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘺̸𝘀⃥𝘦̸𝗹⃥𝘧̸ 𝘦̸𝘃⃥𝘦̸𝗿⃥𝘺̸𝗱⃥𝘢̸𝘆⃥.̸ 𝘚̸𝗵⃥𝘰̸𝘄⃥𝘦̸𝗿⃥𝘪̸𝗻⃥𝘨̸ 𝘪̸𝘀⃥ 𝘂⃥𝘯̸𝗻⃥𝘦̸𝗰⃥𝘦̸𝘀⃥𝘴̸𝗮⃥𝘳̸𝘆⃥.̸

 

Journal 11

 

𝗜⃥ 𝗵⃥𝘢̸𝘃⃥𝘦̸ 𝘣̸𝗲⃥𝘦̸𝗻⃥ 𝗵⃥𝘦̸𝗮⃥𝘳̸𝗶⃥𝘯̸𝗴⃥ 𝗮⃥ 𝗴⃥𝘪̸𝗿⃥𝘭̸ 𝘴̸𝗶⃥𝘯̸𝗴⃥ 𝗻⃥𝘰̸𝗻⃥𝘴̸𝘁⃥𝘰̸𝗽⃥ 𝗲⃥𝘷̸𝗲⃥𝘳̸𝘆⃥𝘥̸𝗮⃥𝘺̸ 𝘧̸𝗼⃥𝘳̸ 𝘵̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘱̸𝗮⃥𝘴̸𝘁⃥ 𝟯⃥ 𝗱⃥𝘢̸𝘆⃥𝘴̸.̸𝗜⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗣⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸𝗙⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘠̸ 𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗦⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘚̸𝗪⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸ 𝘚̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸𝗖⃥𝘌̸

 

Journal 12

 

𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥

𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗢⃥𝘗̸

 

Journal 13

 

𝘐̸ 𝘨̸𝗲⃥𝘵̸ 𝘶̸𝗽⃥ 𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝗱⃥ 𝗼⃥𝘱̸𝗲⃥𝘯̸ 𝘵̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘥̸𝗼⃥𝘰̸𝗿⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗴⃥𝘰̸ 𝘴̸𝗲⃥𝘦̸ 𝘸̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸𝗿⃥𝘦̸ 𝘪̸𝘁⃥ 𝗶⃥𝘴̸ 𝘤̸𝗼⃥𝘮̸𝗶⃥𝘯̸𝗴⃥ 𝗳⃥𝘳̸𝗼⃥𝘮̸.⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗽⃥𝘦̸𝗲⃥𝘳̸ 𝘰̸𝘂⃥𝘵̸ 𝘪̸𝗻⃥𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝗵⃥𝘢̸𝗹⃥𝘭̸𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝘆⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸𝗿⃥𝘦̸'⃥𝘴̸ 𝘢̸ 𝘭̸𝗶⃥𝘨̸𝗵⃥𝘵̸ 𝘦̸𝗺⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘢̸𝘁⃥𝘪̸𝗻⃥𝘨̸ 𝘧̸𝗿⃥𝘰̸𝗺⃥ 𝘂⃥𝘯̸𝗱⃥𝘦̸𝗿⃥𝘯̸𝗲⃥𝘢̸𝘁⃥𝘩̸ 𝘵̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘥̸𝗼⃥𝘰̸𝗿⃥ 𝗼⃥𝘧̸ 𝟩̸𝟬⃥𝟩̸.⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗯⃥𝘦̸𝗴⃥𝘳̸𝘂⃥𝘥̸𝗴⃥𝘪̸𝗻⃥𝘨̸𝗹⃥𝘺̸ 𝘸̸𝗮⃥𝘭̸𝗸⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘰̸𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘥̸𝘀⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝗱⃥𝘰̸𝗼⃥𝘳̸.⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘢̸𝗰⃥𝘩̸ 𝘴̸𝘁⃥𝘦̸𝗽⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘢̸𝗸⃥𝘦̸ 𝘧̸𝗲⃥𝘦̸𝗹⃥𝘴̸ 𝘭̸𝗶⃥𝘬̸𝗲⃥ 𝗜⃥'̸𝗺⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘢̸𝗹⃥𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘯̸𝗴⃥ 𝗼⃥𝘯̸ 𝘨̸𝗹⃥𝘢̸𝘀⃥𝘴̸.⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘶̸𝘁⃥ 𝘀⃥𝘵̸𝗶⃥𝘭̸𝗹⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗺⃥𝘰̸𝘃⃥𝘦̸ 𝘰̸𝘃⃥𝘦̸𝗿⃥.̸ 𝘔̸𝘆⃥ 𝗵⃥𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘥̸ 𝘳̸𝗲⃥𝘢̸𝗰⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥𝘴̸ 𝘰̸𝘂⃥𝘵̸ 𝘧̸𝗼⃥𝘳̸ 𝘵̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘬̸𝗻⃥𝘰̸𝗯⃥,̸ 𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘥̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘵̸𝘂⃥𝘳̸𝗻⃥ 𝗶⃥𝘵̸ 𝘭̸𝗶⃥𝘨̸𝗵⃥𝘵̸𝗹⃥𝘺̸.⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝗶⃥𝘯̸𝗻⃥𝘦̸𝗿⃥ 𝘄⃥𝘰̸𝗿⃥𝘬̸𝗶⃥𝘯̸𝗴⃥𝘴̸ 𝘰̸𝗳⃥ 𝘁⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝗸⃥𝘯̸𝗼⃥𝘣̸ 𝘤̸𝗹⃥𝘪̸𝗰⃥𝘬̸ 𝘢̸𝗻⃥𝘥̸ 𝘵̸𝗵⃥𝘦̸ 𝘥̸𝗼⃥𝘰̸𝗿⃥ 𝗯⃥𝘦̸𝗴⃥𝘪̸𝗻⃥𝘴̸ 𝘵̸𝗼⃥ 𝗼⃥𝘱̸𝗲⃥𝘯̸.⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥ 𝗱⃥𝘰̸𝗼⃥𝘳̸𝘀⃥ 𝗼⃥𝘱̸𝗲⃥𝘯̸𝘀⃥ 𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝗱⃥ 𝗯⃥𝘦̸𝗳⃥𝘰̸𝗿⃥𝘦̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘤̸𝗮⃥𝘯̸ 𝘴̸𝗲⃥𝘦̸ 𝘪̸𝗻⃥𝘴̸𝗶⃥𝘥̸𝗲⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗳⃥𝘦̸𝗲⃥𝘭̸ 𝘢̸ 𝘱̸𝗮⃥𝘪̸𝗻⃥ 𝗶⃥𝘯̸ 𝘮̸𝘆⃥ 𝗰⃥𝘩̸𝗲⃥𝘴̸𝘁⃥ 𝗮⃥𝘯̸𝗱⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗳⃥—̸