The next few days passed slowly for Jenny. Classes dragged on as her mind wandered, replaying the moments with Phillip over and over again. Every time her thoughts drifted to him, she could feel a strange flutter in her stomach — part fear, part fascination, and something she didn't dare name.
Sometimes she caught herself staring at nothing during lectures, the professor's voice fading into the background while her mind replayed Phillip's teasing smirk or the way he leaned casually against the wall as if the world belonged to him.
Her friend nudged her once during class.
"Jenny… are you okay? You've been staring at the same page for ten minutes."
Jenny blinked and quickly looked down at her notebook. The page was empty except for a few half-written words.
"I'm fine," she replied quickly.
But she knew she wasn't.
Phillip had entered her life like a storm and somehow left traces of himself everywhere in her thoughts.
That afternoon, when she returned to her hostel room, she was tired and mentally drained. She dropped her bag on the chair and stretched her arms.
Just as she was about to sit down, there was a knock on the door.
Jenny frowned.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
When she opened the door, she saw a small package sitting on the floor.
No one was there.
Her heart skipped.
Slowly, she bent down and picked it up. It was neatly wrapped with simple brown paper. Written across the top in messy handwriting were two words:
Jenny.
Her fingers tightened around the package.
She already knew who it was from.
Phillip.
She closed the door and placed the package on the table, staring at it for a moment before opening it.
Inside were several things neatly arranged: a few packs of food, two books, and a small wooden carving of a lion.
Jenny picked up the carving and examined it closely.
The lion looked fierce yet calm, its tiny carved mane detailed carefully. It was surprisingly beautiful.
"Why would he send this?" she murmured.
As she lifted the items out of the box, a folded piece of paper slipped out and floated gently to the floor.
Jenny immediately recognized the jagged handwriting.
Her heartbeat quickened.
She unfolded it slowly.
"For the girl who cooked for me,
Who showed me noodles and courage,
May your days be spiced with laughter
And your heart remain curious.
— Your prophet"
Jenny stared at the note for a moment.
Then she laughed softly.
"A robber… writing poems," she muttered to herself.
Despite herself, she felt warmth spread through her chest.
It was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
Yet somehow… she liked it.
That night she placed the lion carving on her bedside table where she could see it.
Over the next few days, more small packages arrived.
Sometimes it was food.
Sometimes books.
Once it was a scarf.
Another time it was chocolates wrapped in simple paper.
And almost every time, there was a small handwritten poem inside.
Jenny began to look forward to them.
Each delivery made her heart race with curiosity.
What would he send today?
What kind of poem would he write?
Her life slowly began to revolve around these small mysterious gifts.
One evening, after receiving another package, Jenny sat on her bed rereading one of the poems.
She was so lost in thought that she nearly jumped when someone knocked on the door.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
She already knew.
When she opened the door, Phillip was standing there.
Leaning against the doorframe.
Smirking.
Looking completely relaxed, as if visiting her room was the most normal thing in the world.
"Good evening," he said lightly.
Jenny folded her arms.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she asked.
Phillip tilted his head.
"Enjoying what?"
"All these gifts. The poems. Showing up like you own the place."
He chuckled.
"I never said I didn't."
Jenny tried to hide the smile forming on her lips.
"You brought more things?" she asked.
Phillip lifted a small package in his hand.
"Just something small."
She reached for it cautiously.
Their fingers brushed for a brief moment.
Jenny quickly pulled her hand back.
The small contact sent a strange jolt through her body.
Phillip noticed but said nothing.
Instead, he leaned against the wall inside the room, watching her open the package.
Inside was another book.
Jenny looked up at him.
"You expect me to believe a gang leader spends his time picking books for people?"
Phillip shrugged.
"I read sometimes."
Jenny laughed softly.
"You're full of surprises."
"Life would be boring without them."
She sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding the book.
Then she looked up at him seriously.
"Why are you doing this?"
Phillip raised an eyebrow.
"Doing what?"
"All of this," she said, gesturing around the room.
"The gifts. The poems. Coming back here."
Phillip crossed his arms and studied her for a moment.
Finally he said quietly,
"I told you before. I like the curiosity in your eyes."
Jenny frowned.
"That's it?"
He smirked.
"You'd be surprised how rare that is."
She shook her head.
"You're impossible."
Phillip laughed softly.
"Maybe."
They sat in silence for a moment.
The room felt strangely calm.
Comfortable even.
Jenny hated that she was beginning to enjoy his presence.
Before leaving, Phillip reached into his pocket and handed her another folded note.
"Read it later," he said.
Jenny opened it anyway.
It was a short poem:
"Some fear the dark of night
Some fear what they cannot see
But the bravest girl I've met
Once cooked noodles for a thief like me."
Jenny burst out laughing.
"That's terrible poetry."
Phillip grinned.
"I never said I was a professional."
She folded the paper carefully.
"You're ridiculous."
"And yet you're smiling."
Jenny didn't respond.
Because he was right.
After a few minutes, Phillip moved toward the door.
"I'll see you again," he said casually.
Jenny watched him leave, the same way she always did — disappearing into the quiet darkness outside.
When the door closed, she sat on her bed staring at the poems and gifts scattered around the room.
Her life had changed in ways she couldn't explain.
A robber had walked into her room one night.
And somehow… he had stayed in her thoughts ever since.
Jenny lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
Deep down, she knew one thing for certain.
Phillip — the thief, the poet, the strange prophet — was far from finished with her.
And part of her wasn't sure she wanted him to be.