The silence stretched on like an unanswered question.
It started with missed calls—one, then two, then five. Texts sent and left on read, her name still marked "online" but no reply. For someone so reserved, so soft-spoken and cautious, Lila had never been this distant. Not from her.
The days bled together. Mornings were filled with forced productivity—scrolling through job listings she didn't want, staring at her screen until the words blurred. Evenings brought restless pacing around the apartment, music that didn't quite soothe, and glances at the door like she half-expected her friend to walk in with an awkward apology and an oversized hoodie.
But the door stayed closed. And the silence, loud.
She tried to rationalize it. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe Lila just needed space. But that didn't explain why her calls rang twice before going straight to voicemail or why their usual meet-up spots remained empty. Something was off.
And on top of that, everything else was unraveling too.
Work at the library had become unbearable. The endless repetition, the fluorescent lights that hummed too loudly, the same people passing by her desk with barely a nod. Her paycheck barely lasted halfway through the month, and she was tired of pretending that was enough.
She wasn't meant to fade into beige routine. Not with her dreams. Not with the way her spirit always craved something electric. Adventure. Independence. Escape.
That night, after microwaving leftover rice she didn't even touch, she curled on the couch and stared up at the ceiling.
"I'm not going to die a librarian," she muttered into the silence. The words tasted bold. Final. She repeated them again. Louder this time.
That's when her phone buzzed.
A message—short, plain, and chilling in its timing.
"Hey. It's still available. And the pay's insane. Can we talk?"
No greeting. No "sorry." No explanation about the disappearing act. Just a dangling carrot.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Lila.
Something about it made her stomach twist. That phrase—"it's still available"—felt rehearsed. Cold. Almost like she was reading a line given to her.
But after everything, she couldn't ignore it. She needed this. Needed something.
Her reply came before she could second guess it.
"Tomorrow. Usual place?"
The response came instantly:
"Same place. Same time."
She stared at the screen long after the message faded. Not with relief. Not even with hope.
But with a quiet knowing.
Something was coming for her.
And this time… it wouldn't knock.
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