Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake
By Olivia Salter
The first time Jasmine saw her, she was walking home from work—past the towering high-rises of Midtown Atlanta, their sleek glass exteriors catching the last light of day. The sky bled into shades of burnt orange and dusky violet, a striking contrast against the neon signs flickering to life. The warm scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cafe mixed with the metallic tang of the city, grounding her in routine.
Then came the scream.
Not the sharp wail of an ambulance or the distant howl of a siren, but something raw, jagged—a sound that clawed up from the belly of fear itself.
Jasmine stopped mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs. Across the street, just beyond the blur of moving headlights, she saw her.
Herself.
The woman was a mirror image, but distorted. Jasmine’s own high cheekbones, honey-brown skin, and precise locs—except this version of her was wild, frantic. Her hair hung in uneven long locs, she looked like she had been running for miles. A torn blouse sagged off one shoulder, her skin glistening with sweat.
She was sprinting straight for her.
Jasmine’s breath hitched as their eyes locked. The woman’s lips moved, desperate, shaping words Jasmine couldn’t hear over the city’s noise. Her arms stretched out, fingers trembling, pleading.
Then—
A car horn blared.
Jasmine stumbled back, her heel catching on the curb. The world jolted into motion again—tires screeched, a cyclist shouted, a couple laughed as they passed by, oblivious. Jasmine whipped her head around.
The woman was gone.
Nothing but the rush of traffic and the distant hum of Atlanta’s nightlife surrounded her.
She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest.
Stress, she told herself. Wedding stress.
But as she turned toward home, the phantom of that scream curled around her like a whisper, refusing to let go.
Jasmine sat curled on the sleek leather couch, her fingers distractedly tracing the seam of a throw pillow as she recounted what she had seen. The city skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but she kept glancing at her reflection in the glass, half-expecting to see that woman staring back at her.
Grant barely looked up from his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before taking a slow sip. “You probably saw a homeless woman,” he said, his voice even, dismissive. “Midtown’s full of them.”
Jasmine’s stomach twisted. “She looked like me.”
Grant exhaled sharply, the sound edged with impatience. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the couch. “Baby, you’re overworked. Between your job and planning this wedding, your mind’s bound to be frazzled.” He slid closer, the warmth of his body pressing against her side. His fingers skimmed her hip, soothing, comforting. “Besides, aren’t you the one who always says the subconscious plays tricks?”
Jasmine wanted to argue, wanted to insist that what she saw wasn’t just some stress-induced hallucination. But Grant’s certainty—his unwavering, effortless confidence—settled over her like a weighted blanket, muffling her doubts.
She forced a nod, her voice quieter than she intended. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
But later that night, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, the dream came.
The woman was back.
And this time, she was screaming her name.
The next warning came through her email.
Jasmine was buried in work, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she juggled deadlines, emails, and staff messages. Her inbox was a battlefield—branding proposals
Then one subject line stopped her cold.
DON’T DO IT, JASMINE.
Her breath hitched. A slow, creeping dread slithered up her spine.
With a shaky hand, she clicked.
The email body was empty. No sender. No signature. Just a void staring back at her.
Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears. The office around her buzzed—phones ringing, heels clicking against polished floors, the hum of the espresso machine in the break room—but she felt distant, confused, as if the world had taken a step back.
She reached for her phone, fingers fumbling to take a screenshot. But the second her fingertips grazed the screen—
The email vanished.
Gone. No trace. No record. She refreshed. Checked her spam folder. Opened and closed her inbox twice.
Nothing.
Jasmine swallowed hard. A glitch, she told herself. Just a system error. But when she reached for her coffee, her hands were trembling too much to lift the cup.
The video call came that night.
Jasmine and Grant had just finished dinner—one of their usual nights in, where he picked the wine, the music, the conversation. He had chosen a bold red from Napa, something expensive but impersonal, and queued up a jazz playlist that hummed low in the background. She had barely touched her glass.
Now, standing at the sink, she rinsed their plates under the warm stream of water, watching the soap swirl down the drain. Her phone, propped against the marble counter, lit up and started ringing.
Unknown Caller.
A cold prickle crawled up Jasmine’s spine. She hesitated, her fingers damp as she swiped to answer.
The screen flickered—static crackling at the edges—then resolved into an image that made her stomach plummet.
Herself.
Not a reflection. Not a mirror.
Her.
But this version of her looked hollowed out, like something had scraped her soul raw. Her skin was pale, her eyes rimmed red, and tear tracks streaked her cheeks. Shadows pooled beneath her collarbones, like she had been drained of light.
The woman on the screen parted her lips, and a hoarse whisper slipped through.
"Please listen to me."
Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. She took an involuntary step back, her hip bumping the counter. “Who—who are you?”
The woman flinched like the words physically struck her. But her voice, when it came, was steady. "You know who I am. And you know what’s happening. Don’t marry him. Please."
A slow, creeping numbness spread through Jasmine’s limbs. The faucet was still running, the distant murmur of Grant’s voice carried from the living room, but all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.
“This is a joke,” she said, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Who is this?”
Future-Jasmine leaned forward, the screen distorting slightly as if reality itself struggled to hold her image. Her expression was raw, stripped bare, her pain so tangible Jasmine could feel it like a weight pressing on her chest.
"You think you’ll be okay. That you can fix him." Future-Jasmine’s voice trembled, her breath ragged. "You can’t. He will take everything from you. He will break you down, piece by piece. And when you finally understand, it will be too late."
Jasmine’s throat was so dry it ached. “Why should I believe you?”
A broken laugh escaped the woman on the screen, a sound so brittle it sent a shiver through Jasmine’s bones.
"Because I didn’t believe myself either."
The screen glitched, warped—her own image stretching and twisting as if something was pulling it away—then the call dropped.
Jasmine stood motionless, her pulse hammering. The water still ran, sending steaming swirls of soap down the drain. From the living room, Grant called her name, his voice smooth, expectant. The sound blurred against the rush of blood in her ears.
She should tell him. Should tell someone.
But deep in the pit of her stomach, a sickening certainty settled.
She already knew exactly how that conversation would go.
The next morning, Jasmine tried to convince herself it was stress. She really did.
She blamed the late nights, the wedding planning, the pressure of making everything perfect. She told herself she was overworked, overstimulated—that her brain was just playing tricks on her.
But at 3:00 AM, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.
The sound yanked her out of a restless sleep, her body rigid beneath the silk sheets. Grant stirred beside her but didn’t wake. Heart pounding, Jasmine reached for her phone.
One new voicemail.
A tight knot coiled in her stomach as she hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the city outside, the high-rise windows reflecting back nothing but black.
She pressed play.
At first, nothing. Just breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Uneven, like someone had been running for their life.
Then—her own voice.
Shaking. Desperate.
"You have to listen. You have to leave. You have to leave before—”
Static. A choked sob. Then silence.
Jasmine’s breath strangled in her throat. Her fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from her grasp, landing on the comforter with a muted thud.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The stillness of the room pressed in around her, the silence thick and suffocating.
She wanted to wake Grant, to tell him, to do something—but she already knew what he would say.
It’s stress, baby. You’re overthinking. Go back to sleep.
But her body knew the truth. The tremor in her hands. The cold sweat at the back of her neck.
This wasn’t stress.
It was a warning.
The wedding was in two days.
Jasmine stood in the bedroom, wrapped in a silence so thick it pressed against her ribs. The city outside moved as usual—car horns, distant laughter, the hum of Atlanta just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—but in here, time felt frozen.
The wedding dress hung from the closet door, a ghostly silhouette in the dim light. Layers of ivory silk cascaded down like a waterfall, delicate, pristine. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.
Her breath came shallow as she stared at it, fingers curling into her palms.
She hadn’t told Grant about the email. Or the video call. Or the voicemail.
She hadn’t told him because he wouldn’t believe her. Because she barely believed herself.
But as she stood there, the weight of it all pressing down on her, she realized—this wasn’t about the visions anymore.
It was about what she already knew.
The way he dismissed her fears with that easy, condescending smile.
The way his love felt like a performance, something she had to earn rather than something freely given.
The way she had already begun shrinking for him.
This was her last chance to stop it. To stop herself.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She had to leave.
She made it halfway to the door before she heard it.
His voice.
“Where are you going?”
The words cut through the air, low and measured, sending a jolt down her spine.
Jasmine spun around.
Grant stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. His arms were crossed, his posture casual—but his eyes weren’t. They were locked onto her, unreadable, calculating.
She swallowed. Her heart thundered against her ribs.
“I—” Her throat felt tight. “I need to think. I need space.”
Grant exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “You’re just nervous,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “It’s normal.”
No.
It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t cold feet. It wasn’t the wedding.
It was him.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s more than that.”
A flicker of something—something dark—passed behind his eyes. His jaw clenched, so briefly she almost missed it.
“So, that’s it?” His voice was even, controlled, but his fingers twitched at his side. “You’re throwing everything away?”
Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears.
“I’m not throwing anything away. I just—”
His hand shot out.
Fingers wrapping around her wrist. Hard.
A sharp breath caught in her throat.
His grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise. Not yet. But it was firm. Unyielding.
A silent warning.
Jasmine’s skin went cold.
Because suddenly, she knew.
This was the beginning.
The moment Future-Jasmine had tried to warn her about.
The moment where it all started—the slow unraveling, the suffocating, the feeling of being trapped in something that wasn’t love but looked too much like it to question.
She should have ripped her arm away.
She should have run.
But just like before, just like always—
She didn’t.
Jasmine stood at the altar, her hands locked in Grant’s grip, her fingers numb, ice-cold.
The church was warm, filled with soft candlelight, the scent of roses thick in the air. A string quartet played something elegant, something meant to sound like forever.
But inside, she was frozen.
Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, she could still hear herself screaming—raw, desperate, clawing at the edges of her consciousness.
But the echoes had faded.
The veil settled over her shoulders. The vows left her lips. The ring slid onto her finger.
And the cycle began again.
Jasmine sat at the long dining table in their sleek Buckhead condo, staring at the untouched filet mignon Grant had ordered. The scent of rosemary and butter filled the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her fork.
The candlelight flickered between them, its glow casting jagged shadows across his chiseled face. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.
Grant swirled his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been quiet all night.” His voice was smooth, measured—too measured. He set the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound slicing through the silence.
Jasmine forced a smile, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress beneath the table. “Just tired.”
His eyes narrowed. “Again?”
There it was. The shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.
It was always like this now. The wrong answer, the wrong tone, and his patience would thin, unraveling into something sharper. He would remind her, softly at first, how much he had done for her—the apartment, the wedding, the life she was so lucky to have.
And if she didn’t answer right, the warmth in his voice would cool.
She knew where this was going. She had seen it before. Lived it before.
The cycle had started, just as her other self had warned.
This wasn’t love anymore. It was control.
Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat.
And yet, she stayed.
Just like before.
The warnings never stopped.
Emails from addresses that didn’t exist. Muffled voicemails of her own voice crying—begging. Messages vanishing the moment she tried to show them to someone.
At first, she deleted them. Ignored them. Convinced herself they were stress-induced hallucinations, figments of an overworked mind. But no matter how many times she tried to erase them, they always came back—like echoes from a future she didn’t want to believe in.
One night, the glow of her phone screen pulled her from sleep.
Another email.
IT NEVER GETS BETTER. LEAVE.
Jasmine’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the sheets.
Beside her, Grant lay still, his breath deep and steady. The dim light from her phone screen cast long shadows across his face—the face of the man she had promised forever to.
His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and possessive.
The weight of ownership.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She closed the email. Turned off her phone.
Rolled back into the cage of his embrace.
And tried to sleep.
The first slap came a year later.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. No raised voices, no shattered glass—just a swift, casual motion, his palm cutting across her cheek like an afterthought. A flick of the wrist, a correction, as effortless as straightening his tie.
Jasmine barely registered it at first. The sting came second, the shock third. She blinked, frozen in place, fingers drifting to her cheek where the heat of his touch still lingered.
Grant exhaled, already turning away, as if the moment didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter.
“Don’t overreact,” he muttered, his tone bored.
Jasmine stood there, rooted, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Something inside her cracked.
In the silence that followed, she could still hear herself screaming in the distance— a voice lost in time, warning, pleading.
She closed her eyes.
And let the silence swallow her whole.
The rain poured in sheets, soaking Jasmine’s nightgown, clinging to her skin like a second layer of cold regret. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there—barefoot in the mud, the city skyline blinking behind her, the storm washing over her like some kind of baptism that refused to take.
She looked down.
Her reflection rippled in the puddle at her feet—distorted, unfamiliar. Her eyes were hollow, her lips pressed thin. She didn’t recognize herself.
Then—a whisper.
“You know what you have to do.”
Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned.
Her.
Future-Jasmine stood a few feet away, rainwater streaming down her face, her arms wrapped around herself as if holding together something fragile. Her expression was raw—pleading.
“I know you’re scared,” she said, voice barely audible over the storm. “But listen to me this time. RUN.”
Jasmine’s chest tightened, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
“I—I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips.
Future-Jasmine shook her head, stepping forward, her soaked dress dragging against the pavement. “You’ve said that before. And you’ll keep saying it. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of you. Until you wake up one day and realize you’re just—gone.”
Jasmine shuddered. The words felt heavy, sinking into her bones, pressing against the deepest parts of her she had tried to ignore.
“I don’t know how,” she admitted, voice breaking.
Future-Jasmine studied her, something soft and knowing in her gaze.
“Yes, you do.”
Jasmine swallowed hard. The rain dripped from her chin.
And then—she vanished.
Leaving Jasmine alone in the storm, staring at the space where she had stood.
That night, Jasmine moved like a ghost through the dimly lit condo, her breath shallow, her pulse a steady drum in her ears.
She didn’t pause. Didn’t let doubt creep in.
She stuffed clothes into a duffel—just enough. Just what she could carry. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Grant stirred once in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. She froze in the doorway, heart hammering, but he didn’t wake.
The key turned smoothly in the ignition.
As she drove, the city lights blurred past, but for the first time, she wasn’t looking back.
Years later, in a sunlit apartment in Savannah, Jasmine stirred beneath soft linen sheets, a faint breeze whispering through the open window.
A feeling brushed against her skin—a presence.
Her breath hitched, muscles tensing, the old instinct returning. She turned, half-expecting to see her—the version of herself that had once chased, pleaded, warned.
But the room was empty. Only morning light pooled on the floor, golden and warm.
For the first time, the past was truly behind her.
Jasmine inhaled deeply.
And finally, slept without ghosts.
