I Think I'm Seriously Going Crazy.

I woke up, and for a terrifying, fraction-of-a-second moment, I thought I was back in the Ubume's clutches.

When I blinked open my eyes, there was a head of slightly messy, dark hair inches from my face. My breath hitched. It wasn't the weeping woman, but a sleeping young woman—specifically, Ishikawa Ueno.

It seems sometime during the night, she had either accidentally tumbled off my bed or, inexplicably, decided my narrow, hard futon on the floor looked more appealing. She was practically spooning the futon, her back to the bed and her face mashed right up against my cheek.

"Gah!" I instinctively bolted upright, executing a perfect panic-jump that was definitely more embarrassing than graceful.

The sudden motion jarred her awake. "Wha—what happened?" Ueno mumbled, her eyes blinking rapidly in the morning light. She looked utterly bewildered, her hair sticking up at various angles.

I couldn't answer. I just pointed, silently, at the ridiculous scene we had created. She followed my gaze, realizing she hadn't woken up in my bed but directly next to me on the floor. Ah. Her cheeks immediately turned that familiar, alarming shade of deep crimson. She started scrambling back onto the bed, muttering apologies I couldn't quite catch.

Am I the lucky main protagonist or what?, a ridiculous mix of mortification and fleeting smugness washing over me. I was being haunted by a death goddess, but at least I had the ultimate awkward high school drama going on.

I glanced at the cheap alarm clock on my desk. 6:34 AM. We needed to hustle.

I grabbed my clean uniform, which, along with Ueno's one, had been neatly folded on my dresser. Mom, the silent efficiency expert, had washed and dried her uniform overnight.

I handed Ueno her freshly cleaned outfit. "You should go first. Ladies first, you know." It was the most gentlemanly thing I’d said all year, and it felt weirdly satisfying.

I showered after her. When I put on my uniform, I immediately noticed it: a faint, clean, but distinctly feminine scent. My clothes, and presumably hers, now shared the same neutral, floral laundry deodorant scent from Mom's new detergent brand. It was a small, silly detail, but it was just one more layer of unavoidable intimacy.

We ate a quick, quiet breakfast, my parents giving us ridiculously knowing smiles the whole time. Then, we were out the door.

The walk to the station was silent. Neither of us dared to bring up the horrifying Ubume sighting, the panicked train drag, or the extreme embarrassment of the floor-cuddle situation. It was a mutual agreement to pretend that last night was a high-fever dream.

We got onto the train. The morning commute was a brutal crush of humanity. The carriage was packed tighter than a tin of Japanese sardines. We were instantly crammed together, sitting side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, our knees touching. This was the kind of forced proximity that social anxiety disorders are made of.

Finally, the train slowed for our station. I sighed, stretching my stiff shoulders from the uncomfortable seating. I stood up and offered my hand to Ueno, pulling her up with a gentleness I hadn't managed the night before.

As we started to move toward the doors, something caught my eye.

It wasn't in a reflection this time. It wasn't on a phone screen, or in a mirror.

Just for a fraction of a second, through the dense crowd of departing passengers, I saw her. The Ubume.

She was standing on the train we were leaving, not an image, not a ghost in a glass, but a physical, tangible presence. Her dark hair was damp, her clothes were indeed ripped and stained a dark, rusty-red color, and her face was in that signature look of grief.

Then, the crowd swallowed the view.

"..."

Before I could process the terrifying transition from 'digital ghost' to 'real-life spectre,' we were pushed out onto the platform, and the train doors hissed shut behind us.

She's here. She's really, physically here.