I told myself I'd avoid him.
I swore I'd take different hallways, different streets, different hours.
But every change I made, he seemed to already know.
Two days passed without seeing him.
The absence was supposed to feel like safety. Instead, it felt like… withdrawal.
Then, last night, I woke to the sound of something tapping my window.
Not a knock. Not loud enough to scare me into screaming. Just enough to pull me from sleep.
When I slid the curtain aside, there was nothing.
No one in the street below. No movement in the trees. Just a folded piece of paper sitting on the windowsill — like it had always been there.
My hands shook as I opened it.
You look beautiful when you sleep.
No signature. No explanation. Just those words, neat and deliberate, the same handwriting as before.
I should've locked the window. I should've burned the note.
Instead, I set it on my nightstand, right where I could see it from my bed.
Because as much as I hated to admit it…
I wanted him to come back.