Elena didn't know when she stopped being afraid. Maybe it was the quiet familiarity of the gifts. Or the way the wind seemed to pause whenever she stepped outside, as though the air itself was watching. Or maybe it was how he made the world feel smaller—like nothing could reach her as long as he was close, even if she couldn't see him.
That afternoon, she sat in the library again. Same seat. Same corner. She didn't glance around this time, but she felt it—that pull at the edge of her mind, like eyes trained on her.
When she left, the corridor was empty. Her shoes echoed against the tile. The air had weight, like it carried something unsaid. Her fingers clutched her bag tighter.
Then she heard it.
A breath. Just behind her ear.
Elena spun, but no one was there. Only the faintest scent of cedar lingering. Her heart beat faster. She didn't run. Not this time. She walked slower.
Deliberate.
Almost like an invitation.
She got home to find a small parcel by her door. Inside was a worn leather book with delicate cursive on the first page: *"For the ones who feel too much."*
There was no name.
She clutched it to her chest.
The next morning, she passed a girl crying outside the admin building. Elena almost didn't stop. But something in her made her pause. "Are you okay?" she asked.
The girl wiped her eyes. "My boyfriend's been acting weird. Watching me. But not talking. I don't know what he wants anymore."
Elena felt something sharp stir in her stomach.
That evening, when she stepped out for air, a shadow flickered across the alley behind her building. Not close enough to see. But enough to feel.
She whispered, "Are you there?"
No reply. But the streetlight above her blinked twice, then stayed on.
She went back inside.
In her room, she stared at the bracelet on her wrist. The little charm with the letter E shone under the light.
He hadn't touched her. Not really. But somehow, he was everywhere. In the way her lock clicked just slightly differently now. In the way her lights turned on before she reached the switch. In the way the silence spoke louder when he wasn't near.
Later that night, she lay awake, the curtains drawn. A soft knock tapped once against the glass. Her breath caught.
She pulled the curtain aside slowly.
A single white rose stood on her windowsill. Dew clung to its petals like tears.
She didn't open the window.
She didn't need to.
He was watching.
And for reasons she didn't understand, she found herself whispering...
"Don't stop."