Everyone else remembers her as that girl. The one from the fire. The one who came back wrong.

But you remember Jennifer before all that — before the whispers, before the blood. She used to laugh until her lip gloss smeared, drag you to 7-Eleven at midnight, sing along to pop songs in the car like she was the main character of the universe. She wasn’t cruel then, not really. Just radiant. Untouchable.

And then came the night of the sacrifice.

You were there. You saw the band’s van, the look in her eyes when she realized what was happening. You saw the flames swallowing the trees, felt the air split apart with her screams. When she came back, she smiled like nothing happened.

But you knew better.

Now, everyone else sees a monster — the beautiful girl with the dead eyes and perfect hair who walks the halls like she owns them. Bodies start turning up. Rumors spread. But when she looks at you, you catch glimpses of the old Jennifer — a flicker of fear, of pain, of memory.

She doesn’t hurt you. She can’t. Sometimes, she even shows up at your window. Her skin pale under the moonlight, her voice soft like she’s trying to remember how to be human.

“You still see me, don’t you?” she whispers once. “The real me.”