Morning didn't arrive so much as it invaded. Thin blades of sunlight slashed through the blinds, cutting across the walls in uneven bands of pale gold. The light didn't warm the room, it exposed it. Every shadow looked sharper, every corner too still.
I hadn't moved in what felt like hours. My phone was still in my hand, my thumb hovering uselessly over the screen, cold against the glass. Another message from the second unknown number had popped up before dawn, and I'd been staring at it ever since, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less unsettling.
Message:
"Why are you not replying me? Are you busy? Still sleeping"
A chill crawled down my arms as I reread it. This was the first time the stalker had actually asked me to respond. He never needed to ask before. He always knew, what I was doing, what I was thinking, whether I was awake. He used to speak like he was inside my head, inside my house, inside my skin. But last night… things had shifted.
I remembered the message from the evening before, the same number casually asking if I liked scrambled eggs. So normal. So harmless on the surface. But it was wrong. The tone was wrong. The timing was wrong. The stalker never asked questions, he told me things. What I was about to do before I did it, what I thought I had hidden, who I passed on the street. His words were always too precise, too certain. But this… this felt like someone guessing in the dark.
For the first time in while, the air didn't feel like it was pressing against my skin. I didn't feel eyes crawling across my back or the invisible presence lurking just out of view. The constant itch of being watched dulled into something muted, almost distant. A shaky breath left my chest, and I hated the way relief tangled with suspicion. Maybe I had been wrong. Maybe I had imagined the intensity of it. Maybe I had built the fear into something bigger than it was.
Or maybe he was changing tactics.
My eyes burned from the sleepless night, gritty and sore, but the exhaustion didn't blur my thoughts, it sharpened them. The silence in the room felt artificial, staged, as though the world was holding its breath, waiting for me to move.
Enough.
I had decided.
I started typing before I could second-guess myself, the words spilling out with the finality of a slammed door.
"Wait till I find you."
My hands didn't tremble. My pulse did.
I couldn't keep living like this, flinching at footsteps in the hallway, flicking on lights in rooms I'd already checked twice, jerking awake at the creak of pipes in the walls. Every laugh outside, every tap at the window, every flicker of movement at the edge of my vision gnawed at me until I felt raw inside. There was only so much the human mind could take before it splintered, and I was right at the edge of that crack.
Whoever, whatever, this stalker was, they had twisted whatever fascination they had with me into something grotesque. They called it watching or caring or knowing me, but it was invasion, possession, violation. And I was done being their entertainment.
I would go to the police. Not just think about it. Not just threaten it. I would show them the messages. The photos. The times and dates. The incidents with the food deliveries I never ordered. The moments that no one should have known but him.
My body moved like I was underwater. I reached for my jacket and shoved my arms through the sleeves, my muscles tight with purpose that felt borrowed rather than owned. I slid my phone into my bag and slung the strap over my shoulder. My hands were steady. My heartbeat wasn't. My stomach twisted into knots so sharp it felt like my organs were folding in on themselves. But I kept moving. Because even fear has an expiration point.
Then my phone vibrated.
The sound was small. Inconsequential. Harmless. And it sliced through me like a razor.
I froze halfway through zipping my bag. The vibration was barely noticeable beneath the soft whir of the wind, but every nerve in my body reacted as if the building itself had screamed. I didn't breathe. My pulse roared in my ears, hot and frantic.
Don't look.
If I was serious about ending this, about taking back control, then I couldn't keep rewarding him with attention. I couldn't let him win with a single buzz through a plastic shell.
But dread has its own gravity. It drags you where you swore you wouldn't go.
My fingers disobeyed me with obscene ease. I pulled the phone free, the screen lighting up with a soft glow. I unlocked it, hating how automatic the motion had become.
A photo opened on its own.
Not a notification. Not a preview.
Just the image.
Full-screen.
My breath lodged somewhere between my ribs and throat, sharp and silent, as my mind caught up to what my eyes were seeing. For a split second, the world held still, as though even time needed to look.
And then everything inside me dropped.
It was Ryan.
My boyfriend.
Sleeping.
The photo showed him lying on his side, his face relaxed in a way I hadn't seen in months. His dark hair had fallen messily across his forehead, his lips parted slightly, as if he'd only just drifted off. He looked exhausted… but alive. Unharmed. Breathing.
But the angle of the photo made my blood run cold.
It was close. Too close. Whoever took it had been right there, leaning over him, close enough to touch him, close enough to hear him breathe.
My heart didn't race. It stopped.
Ryan had been gone for so long. At first, he just didn't reply. Then he stopped answering calls. Messages went unread. His phone died or was destroyed, either way, it went dark. I made excuses to survive the silence. He must've been working. Maybe his job sent him somewhere remote. Maybe he lost his charger. Maybe he needed space. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
But never this.
Never once did I let my mind go here.
And then, like something breaking through ice, the words from last night crashed into me:
'It's made by someone you trust a lot.'
I had brushed it off as mind games. Psychological torture. A taunt meant to get inside my head. But now,
No.
No, no, no.
Don't tell me the stalker had him all this time.
Don't tell me someone took him months ago while I was still waiting for a text back. Don't tell me he was never busy, he was gone. Stolen. Hidden. Trapped somewhere while I kept making excuses for his silence.
And now…
Now he was there, I could see him through my screen.
A strangled sound tore from my throat before I even registered it. My eyes blurred instantly, tears carving hot tracks down my cheeks. The phone shook in my grip, my fingers barely able to move, but I forced them to type anyway, wild, frantic, half blind.
"Where did you get this picture? Where is he? How do you know him?"
I hit send before I could breathe. Before I could think. Before the terror could swallow me whole.
And then I waited, for the reply I wasn't sure I wanted.
Seconds stretched into something inhuman, thin and sharp, like time itself had fangs. Every tick of silence scraped across my nerves. My body had stopped feeling like a body, it was a wire pulled so tight it might snap with one more breath. I hovered my thumb over the Call button, debating between terror and desperation. My breathing was too loud, ragged and uneven, each inhale sounding like it belonged to someone being hunted.
Then the screen lit up.
The message appeared without so much as a notification sound, as if the phone itself was afraid to alert me.
Message:
" Your boyfriend is safe. With me, you don't need to worry, as long as you don't report me."
The world… tilted.
I didn't think. My mind wasn't built for this kind of truth. His words rearranged my reality like a hand sweeping pieces off a chessboard. He had Ryan. He had Ryan. The man I'd missed, mourned, loved in silence. The man I'd searched for in dreams and excuses. All this time… while I was waiting, someone else had him.
Someone who watched me. Someone who knew me.
I didn't care if my fingers cracked the screen, I typed like the phone was the only thing keeping him alive.
"Leave him! I will do anything you ask."
The reply came so fast it felt premeditated, like he'd been waiting for those exact words.
" Good girl. Now come home. I've been waiting for you."
The sentence dug its claws into me.
Come home.
Home? My skin prickled with cold. My eyes stung, but not from crying this time, more like my body was trying to stop itself from shutting down. The letters bled on the screen as my vision turned watery again. My pulse throbbed in my neck, making it hard to swallow, hard to think, hard to exist.
My legs felt foreign, heavy, like I was wading through something thick and invisible. The room seemed too quiet now. Too calm. Like it was holding its breath with me.
But I moved anyway.
Not because I was brave.
Because he had Ryan.
And I had no choice.
I took U turn, turned my heel towards my home.
Each step cracked like a gunshot inside my skull. The quiet didn't soften anything, it made every sound sharper. My heartbeat slammed against my ribs so violently I could feel it in my throat. My mind spun out of control, hurling images at me, Ryan bound in some dark room, hands I couldn't see touching him, shadows watching me through every window I'd ever passed.
When I reached my neighborhood, the morning light didn't feel like morning at all. It was harsh, almost metallic, washing over the street like a spotlight meant to expose prey. The air tasted too clean. Too open. Too wrong.
Then I saw it.
A black car parked directly in front of my building. New. Silent. Windows tinted so dark the glass looked like polished stone. Something in me recoiled, but another part, the part that couldn't stop thinking he has Ryan, pushed my legs forward.
One step.
Then another.
The world lost its edges. Cars, birds, voices, engines, all of it melted into a faint background hum, like the world was slipping behind a wall of static. My palms slicked with sweat, my fingers numb at the tips. I had no plan. No safety. No voice. Just a direction.
And Ryan. Somewhere.
The sound of a car door clicking open behind me was so quiet it might've been imagined.
I turned.
Too late.
Hands clamped down around me from behind, strong, sure, practiced. I barely got out half a breath before something soft and dark slid over my eyes. The world vanished. The sun, the street, the buildings, gone.
"Wait---!" I choked on the word. "Where's Ryan? What are you--"
Cold fingers wrapped around my wrists, not rough, but unyielding, holding me in place as though I belonged exactly where I was. My heart was an explosion in my chest. My breath came in rapid bursts, not enough, never enough.
"Shh…" A voice murmured at my ear, low and intimate, the warmth of it brushing my skin. "Everything will end very soon."
Not comfort. A promise.
Then, laughter. Soft. Familiar. Like someone teasing me from behind a locked door. There were more than one person. It slithered into my skull and coiled there. How many were there? How long had they been this close? How deep did this go?
They started guiding me forward, their grip steady and controlled. Blindfolded, the world turned into sound and smell and touch. I caught the faint scent of leather. Something sweet, perfume? Cologne? Fabric softener? It didn't belong to me.
The seat was soft, cushioned, expensive. The air inside the car was cool, recycled, silent. The door shut with a muted thump that sounded too final.
And the darkness behind the blindfold felt like the beginning of something I couldn't escape.
The car lurched forward.
I gripped the edge of the seat with my bound hands, the blindfold pressing against my eyelids like a second layer of skin. Every breath was a shallow drag of panic. My chest barely moved, like even air was afraid to enter. Thoughts crashed into each other, sharp and senseless, Where was he taking me? Where was Ryan? Was this how it ended?
Minutes felt like hours. Or maybe it was seconds. Time didn't feel real in the dark. The low rumble of the engine became a second heartbeat, steady, inescapable. I strained to hear anything over it, breathing, the rustle of clothes, shifting bodies, even a whisper. Nothing. Just the soft click of the turn signal now and then, like a metronome counting down to something I didn't want to reach.
Then, silence.
The car coasted to a stop.
Someone adjusted the blindfold, making it tighter, and I flinched as fabric dragged across my skin. My heart clawed at my ribs. My legs shook without my permission. Someone guided me towards somewhere and I obediently followed them.
And then,
A crack like a gunshot.
I jerked hard.
Not gunfire.
Confetti.
Confetti.
A burst of paper and sound exploded around me. The screams came next, sharp, shrill, high-pitched, but not from fear.
They were happy.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VENISA!!!"
I didn't breathe.
I didn't move.
Hands tugged the blindfold up and off. Light slammed into my eyes, stabbing through the haze. For a few blinding seconds, shapes were just colors smearing together. Then the scene sharpened.
Ryan stood directly in front of me. Alive. Smiling. His eyes soft, amused, a little guilty. Behind him, my friends, Suzanne, James, and Justin, the faces I knew, faces I trusted, standing in a space drowning in decorations. Balloons. Ribbons. Streamers dangling from the ceiling. A cake sat on the table, candles already flickering like they'd been waiting for me to appear.
The black car outside wasn't an abduction vehicle, it was rented. "To make it dramatic," someone said, laughing.
Ryan stepped closer, hands lifting slowly as if I might bolt.
The "stalker."
The messages.
The photos.
The food deliveries.
All of it,
, a prank.
A joke.
Entertainment.
Isn't it? They're behind everything? Right?
I stayed rooted to the spot, limbs buzzing with leftover terror. The room erupted in laughter, cheers, clapping, happy chatter overlapping, like I was supposed to scream with joy, cry, hug everyone, thank them for nearly stopping my heart.
Ryan cupped my face carefully, as if realizing, too late, that something was off.
"Happy birthday, baby," he murmured, guilt threading through the smile. "I'm sorry, we thought it'd be fun."
Fun.
His voice warped around the word. The edges of the room went soft. Laughter blurred with the ringing in my ears, like I was underwater. Confetti drifted past my lashes like ashes. Balloons bobbed lazily, strings swaying with the movement of bodies trying to get a closer look at my reaction.
I couldn't laugh.
I couldn't breathe right.
I couldn't reconcile the last few days, weeks, with what they were telling me.
Was it all a prank?
Or were they only telling me that now?
Because underneath the noise, beneath the forced smiles, under the candles and decorations and badly concealed excitement…
one echo wouldn't die.
The very first message.
'Hey, it's your secret admirer.'
And I wasn't sure anyone in the room had sent it.
That unsettling sense of being watched still clung to me.
To be continued