The boxes still lined the hallway, some stacked, some half-packed. The whole house is a mess. Alina stood in the doorway of her living room, arms crossed over her chest, and let the quiet wash over her.
The street outside was hushed, shadows spilling across the balcony as dusk settled. Alina closed the window and leaned against the frame, exhaling softly. For the first time in weeks, she wasn't rushing between boxes or falling asleep half-dressed on the couch.
Her new house finally felt still.
She turned slowly, taking in the modest space. The living room was small, just enough for a couch, a low table, and a shelf that still sat half-empty, waiting for books she hadn't unpacked. The paint was chipped near the corners, and the curtains were too thin to block out the harsh morning sun. The kitchen was tucked away, narrow and old-fashioned, but functional.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was hers.
Alina's chest tightened unexpectedly. She crossed the room, fingertips trailing along the wall, the rough paint cool under her skin. How many years had she lived in borrowed rooms, Dormitories, shared spaces, places that never quite belonged to her, corners she decorated with posters only to take them down again months later? Always temporary. Always fleeting.
This...this was different.
Here, if she wanted to hang a crooked picture frame, she could. If she wanted to paint the walls a reckless shade of green, she could. If she wanted to leave a mug on the counter overnight and find it there in the morning, no one would complain. If she were late at night, the doors wouldn't be closed anymore. She has the keys. She can open and close the doors whenever she wants. She can open the television at 11 at night, and no one would complain about the noise.
It was frightening, yes. The weight of responsibility sat heavily on her shoulders. But something inside her finally loosened, like she had been holding her breath for too long and could finally exhale.
But here... it is
Her own house.
Her gaze fell to the table in the corner. A slim black laptop sat there, its screen dulled with a film of dust. She hadn't opened it since she began packing. At first, it was practica. There had been no time between work shifts at the cafe, and the chaos of settling in, she hadn't had a moment to open it. But then… she avoided it.
Now, with the silence of her new home pressing gently around her, she lifted the lid. The screen blinked to life, icons loading, familiar noises filling the silence. Notifications burst across the corner, the familiar comfort she hadn't realized she missed.
Her notifications flooded in. Among them, her eyes caught on one window in particular. One window pulsed with an unread message.
ScriptBreaker!
Alina bit her lip, heart tugging. It had been two weeks since she last replied. She opened the thread, and there they were.
ScriptBreaker:How have you been?
ScriptBreaker: Busy with work again?
ScriptBreaker: Don't tell me you've forgotten me.
ScriptBreaker: I swear, if you don't reply, I'll assume you've finally joined a secret cult or something.
Alina's lips parted in a small, helpless laugh. He hadn't changed. He always had a way of making her smile, even when she didn't mean to. Two weeks had passed, and his messages still carried the same blend of humor and demand, as if he refused to let her slip away quietly.
She typed quickly.
Alina:Sorry. Moving into a new house. Everything's been chaos.
The reply came almost immediately. Then the typing dots appeared almost instantly, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
ScriptBreaker: New house? Look at you. Big step. How does it feel?
Alina's eyes softened. She learned back, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of her desk, then her gaze drifted around the room again. It felt like a fresh start. Still felt unfamiliar
Alina:Strange. Good. Scary. Like it's mine, finally.
But it feels too quiet sometimes.
A longer pause this time. Like has been into a not-so-deep think
ScriptBreaker: Quiet isn't always bad. Sometimes it lets you hear yourself better.
Her fingers stilled on the keys. She read the line twice, something heavy tugging inside her. He always had this way...unexpectedly gentle, almost… intimate.
Then another message popped up.
ScriptBreaker:I want to be the first person you run to when life gets tough
Alina pressed her lips together. A lump formed in her throat, surprising her. She hadn't realized how much she missed this... the easy rhythm of their words, the odd comfort of someone waiting for her in the digital dark.
For a long moment, she just sat there, the cursor blinking at the edge of the screen. She wanted to tell him... about the caf, about Mr. Stranger, about how unsettled she had been.
She hesitated. She didn't even understand it herself still... her fingers moved almost of their own accord. Her fingers moved before she could second-guess.
Alina:There's… something weird.
Dots blinked almost instantly.
ScriptBreaker: Weird how?
She hesitated, then typed, biting her lip.
Alina: There's this man. He comes in often. He doesn't talk to anyone.
Alina: But he talks to me. Only me.
She hit send, heart pounding harder than it should. A beat passed. Then...
ScriptBreaker:That sounds… intriguing.
Alina:More like unsettling. He keeps saying things like he knows me. Like he's teasing me.
Alina, but I swear, I know him. His voice, his eyes. It feels so familiar.
Alina:I just can't remember where.
Another pause. Longer this time. Her fingers tapped nervously on the desk. The typing dots appeared, then vanished. Appeared again. She leaned closer, impatient.
Finally....
ScriptBreaker: Maybe you should find out.
Her breath caught. She stared at the words, something twisting in her stomach.
Alina:Easier said than done. He's clever. Always dodging my questions.
The reply came almost instantly, sharp, deliberate.
ScriptBreaker:Clever men make the bestpuzzles.
She froze. Her breath hitched. It was the phrasing that was too sharp, too confident. Something about it echoed, almost word for word, the way Mr. Stranger had cornered her earlier that week. Her heart lurched.
Alina: …You sound just like him.
The reply appeared after a pause that felt far too long.
ScriptBreaker: Maybe he and I would get along.
Her chest squeezed.
Alina: I'm serious. It's strange. The things you say… the way you say them. It's almost the same.
This time, the dots danced for longer, taunting her.
ScriptBreaker: Maybe you're just thinking about him too much.
She flushed, heat rushing to her cheek, as though no one was there to see it.
Alina:I'm not.
Alina: I mean… maybe
Alina:He won't stop bothering me.
ScriptBreaker: Or maybe you don't want him to stop.
Her fingers stilled. Her pulse thundered. It was too familiar.. too much like him. She swallowed hard.
Alina:Don't be ridiculous.
But even as she typed it, her hands trembled. The reply came slowly this time, deliberate.
ScriptBreaker:You said his voice feels familiar. His eyes, too.
ScriptBreaker:Maybe it isn't about him.
ScriptBreaker: Maybe it's about you remembering what you already know.
Alina sat frozen, staring at the words until they blurred. Her chest was too tight, her mind too loud. Every line from him sounded like both of them at once, ScriptBreaker on the screen, Mr. Stranger at the cafe, voices overlapping in ways that made her dizzy.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, exhaling shakily. What was happening to her? Why did it feel like both men were circling the same truth, like both wanted her to find out?
And why, deep down, did a part of her fear that once she did… nothing in her world would ever be the same?