She didn't believe in fairy tales, not anymore.
Maybe once, when she was young before loneliness carved itself into her bones she thought love would come quietly. Softly. That someone would choose her without asking her to change first.
But university had taught her otherwise. Love wasn't for the quiet girls, the ones who kept their heads down and their thoughts locked in journals no one would ever read. It was for people like Emily. Loud, confident, beautiful in a way that demanded attention.
And Lucas… he had fallen right into her orbit.
She watched him from the edges of her world too scared to speak, too broken to try.
Every laugh he shared with Emily twisted in her chest like a blade. Every casual touch, every whisper between them, every shared glance it killed her slowly, like drowning while pretending you're fine.
No one knew how much it hurt.
No one cared.
Except someone was watching.
She didn't know his name. Hadn't seen his face clearly. But he saw her.
Always.
At first, it was little things. The feeling of being watched — that strange chill on the back of her neck in the library. The faint scent of tobacco in places where no one smoked. A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision when she walked back to her dorm after dark.
She told herself it was paranoia.
But then came the messages.
The first one was tucked into the cover of her literature textbook. The handwriting was neat clean block letters:
"You always seat by the window. You look sad when you think no one's watching. But I see you."
She froze, heart stuttering in her chest. She looked around the empty classroom, but no one stared. No one even looked at her.
She wanted to show Emily. She didn't.
Because deep down… she liked it. Liked that someone saw her.
Even if it was twisted.
Even if it was dangerous.
Days passed. She continued watching Lucas. And someone else continued watching her.
He never approached. Never spoke aloud. But she felt him like a phantom tied to her shadow.
Once, when she was leaving the library late, she passed by the window and saw her reflection and just behind it, the faintest outline of a man. Standing still. Watching.
She turned fast, heart in her throat.
There was no one there.
Another time, she left her dorm unlocked for just a moment to run to the vending machine. When she came back, everything seemed untouched. But her pillow smelled like cologne she didn't wear.
And her journal was open on the last page.
Her handwriting hadn't been disturbed, but someone had drawn a tiny heart beside the final sentence.
"I love Lucas. But he will never love me back."
That was when the fear became real.
She started double-locking her door, keeping her blinds shut, avoiding walking home alone.
But it didn't matter.
The notes kept appearing.
"You deserve more than the boy who ignores you."
"You look pretty when you cry"
"He doesn't see you. But I do. I always have."
One night, a note came with something new a photograph. A grainy, zoomed-in picture of her sitting on her bed in her oversized hoodie, curled up with a book, unaware.
The angle was wrong. It wasn't taken through the door. It was taken from inside.
She screamed and searched her dorm, but nothing was broken, no sign of entry. Campus security dismissed it. No camera footage. No forced lock. "Probably a prank."
But she knew better.
Someone had been inside.
Someone had touched her space.
Then came the whisper.
It was around 2 a.m. The air was still. Her lamp flickered cheap dorm electricity and she got up to fix it. As she turned the bulb tighter, something cold brushed her ankle.
She looked down fast — nothing.
But when she straightened up, she heard it.
Right behind her.
"Why do you hide in silence?"
The voice was soft. Low. Male.
She spun, breath stuck in her throat.
Her room was empty.
But the window was unlocked.
She was sure she locked it.
The next day, she skipped class.
She couldn't focus. She couldn't sleep. The silence in her room felt suffocating. Lucas texted Emily — she saw the notification on her phone. They were meeting for lunch. She could've gone. She could've pretended everything was okay.
But she didn't.
Instead, she sat on her bed, back against the wall, eyes locked on the door.
She waited.
She didn't know what for.
And then… it came.
A knock.
One, soft tap.
Then another.
Not frantic. Not urgent.
Just… patient.
Like the one on the other side already knew she would open.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the doorknob.
She paused.
"Who is it?" she whispered.
Silence.
She opened it an inch.
The hallway was empty.
But on the floor, perfectly centered, was a rose.
Black.
Dried.
Dead
Tied around the stem was a strip of red ribbon — and a note.
*"You belong to me now. Don't be afraid. I'll keep you safe."*
She picked it up with shaking hands, then looked up.
At the far end of the hall, near the stairwell, stood a figure.
Tall.
Still.
Face hidden in the shadows.
Watching
Her mouth opened to scream — but she didn't.
Because something about the way he stood… it was almost reverent. Like she was a painting in a museum. Like he wasn't stalking her.
He was worshiping her.
And she was terrified to admit it, but part of her...
Part of her didn't want him to leave.