It started again with the whispers.
Not the ones in her head—Elena was sure of that now—but in the air. The kind that brushed the back of her neck when she thought she was alone. The kind that made her pause in a crowd, even if no one was watching… or so she thought.
Campus had grown quieter. Maybe it was the season, or maybe it was her. She no longer lingered in places she used to. She walked faster between classes, eyes flicking toward the shadows. She checked her apartment lock twice before bed. Once, she even placed a chair beneath the doorknob.
But the next morning, the chair had been moved slightly. Just a few inches to the right.
She hadn't told anyone about it. Not her roommate. Not her classmates. Not even her journal.
And yet, she woke up the next day to a package on her windowsill—wrapped in soft brown paper with a crimson string. No name. No label.
Inside was a small, leather-bound book. Blank pages. But on the first one, written in neat handwriting:
"For the thoughts you can't say out loud."
Elena's fingers shook as she touched the page.
That afternoon, she tried to convince herself it was a coincidence. Maybe her roommate was just thoughtful. Maybe someone overheard her in class talking about journaling again. Maybe she was just tired.
But then… why did her roommate say she hadn't seen anything? Why was the window still locked from the inside?
She walked to campus that evening instead of taking the bus. It was quiet. Too quiet.
She passed the bookstore.
And she felt it again—that pull. That pressure in the air. Like someone watching from just out of sight. Like someone always just behind.
Her footsteps slowed.
On the bench outside the store sat a folded note.
She didn't want to read it.
She read it anyway.
"You always pass here. I wonder if you notice me."
No name. Just that.
Her heart thundered.
A part of her wanted to scream. Another part… trembled with something far more confusing. Someone saw her. Not in the way people looked past her in class, or the way her professors barely remembered her name. No—this was different.
Someone noticed everything.
And somehow, it felt more terrifying to admit… she was starting to notice him, too.
That night, she dreamed again. The kind of dream that left her breathless when she woke. The kind that made her check the lock three times before lying in bed again.
In the dream, there was a hand brushing her cheek. A voice she couldn't see. A hoodie soaked with rain. A breath behind her ear that said, "You don't know me. But I already know everything."
She woke up clutching the leather-bound book.
The next morning, the word "stay" was written on the next page in the same handwriting. She hadn't written it. But it was in her book.
Elena pressed the page to her chest, pulse hammering.
He was everywhere. Without a sound. Without a trace.
And for the first time, she wasn't sure if she wanted him to stop.
---