Elena didn't tell anyone about the writing in the journal.
She tore out the page.
Burned it in a teacup on her balcony.
Watched the edges curl and blacken, the ink disappearing into smoke.
But still… she carried the book in her bag.
It made her feel insane. Like maybe she was imagining it all. Like maybe the gifts and the notes and the shadow that never quite left her side were nothing but paranoia.
Except they weren't.
That morning, her lecturer paused mid-roll-call. "Miss Carter," he said, "someone dropped this off for you."
A package. Small. Wrapped neatly.
The room hushed as she walked to the front of the class, every step echoing like a drumbeat. Her fingers trembled as she opened it at the back of the room, behind her textbook.
A simple keychain. Silver. The letter E in a cursive design.
She hadn't mentioned her broken one in years—not since high school.
She looked around the class.
No one looked back at her. No one suspicious. No one familiar.
Except…
At the window, a figure passed.
Tall. Hooded. Just for a moment.
Then gone.
She stood so fast her chair scraped the floor. Her professor looked up, startled.
"Bathroom," she said.
She ran down the hallway, heart slamming in her ribs. She pushed open the doors, scanning the sidewalk, the courtyard, the side street.
Empty.
She caught her breath, leaned against the wall.
And then her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: "You shouldn't run like that. You might trip."
Her fingers froze on the screen.
Who are you? she typed, then deleted it.
Instead, she turned her phone off.
That evening, she tried to ignore it. She studied, did the dishes, made tea. She avoided the balcony.
But the shadows moved differently now.
When she turned off the lights, a figure remained by the window, silhouetted through the curtain. Not close. Not threatening.
Just there.
Watching.
When she turned the light back on, he was gone.
Her roommate came home late. "Someone left food at the door again. Did you order something?"
Elena didn't answer. She just picked up the tray—her favorite: tomato basil pasta with garlic bread—and set it on the kitchen counter.
No receipt. No delivery tag.
Just one napkin tucked neatly beside the plate.
Written on it, in neat block letters:
"You forget to eat when you're anxious. I notice."
She didn't sleep that night.
Not because of fear. But because of the strange warmth coiling low in her chest.
Someone had memorized her