Whispers in the Dark

with Ellie Navarro

March 3rd

The train jerked a little pulling into 59th. A few people shifted, getting ready to hop off. I didn’t move. My fingers were a little sweaty from hanging onto the overhead strap too long, and my tote was digging into my side.

That’s when it happened.
A face, just past the doors. Ridiculously attractive. That kind of jawline you only see in ads, dark hair slicked back, dressed sharp. He looked like he belonged somewhere cooler than the 6 train. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe. His eyes were… still. Too still. And then he looked right at me.

He smiled.

I looked away.

It couldn’t have been more than a second. The kind of thing you forget by the time you swipe into the office. Random, nothing, just regular city weirdness.

But as I stepped off and the doors closed, I glanced back. He was still looking. Still smiling.

His eyes didn’t wander, didn’t look around. Just stayed locked on me.

I don’t know why it’s bothering me. Maybe because he was too good-looking for that moment to feel casual. Or maybe because something about it felt…off. I can’t decide if it made me nervous or just thrown. There’s a difference, right? Today, I couldn’t tell.

I’m probably just being dramatic. It was a look. A smile. Whatever.

Still, it’s stuck in my head.

 

March 4th

I woke up late. I didn’t even hear my first alarm, and by the time I rolled out of bed, I was already behind. There was no time for breakfast…again. I splashed water on my face, threw on the blazer that makes me look like I’ve got it together, and power-walked to the train. Missed it by thirty seconds, which felt like a personal attack.

I caught the next one and stood the whole ride, wedged between a guy who smelled like garlic knots and a teenager blasting TikToks with no headphones. My brain felt like soup by the time I got off at Union Square.

Work was its usual brand of chaos. Marta tried to call out sick, but ended up on Zoom anyway, camera off, coughing like she was on her last breath. Brian spilled coffee on the client handouts for our 11:00 meeting, then made some dumb joke about how it matched the font. The client didn’t laugh. Neither did I.

At lunch, I went to the corner bodega for a turkey sandwich. The guy behind the counter always asks if I want pickles, even though I’ve told him a dozen times I don’t. He smiled like it was some kind of private joke, always smirking at me like I am the most amusing person on the planet.

The afternoon dragged. I kept checking Teams like something important might appear, but it was just Olivia being Olivia. She sent one of her vague guilt-trip messages about “staying on top of deadlines.” It was definitely meant for Rachel, but passive-aggressive enough to hit the rest of us too. Meanwhile, the office thermostat was broken again, and by 4 p.m. it felt like we were working inside a toaster.

When I finally got home, I kicked off my shoes, microwaved the last of last night’s noodles, and ate them standing in the kitchen. I scrolled Instagram with my free hand and barely registered what I was eating. Somewhere in the scroll, I got a text from that guy I’ve been talking to, the one I met on the game. He’s kinda funny, in a dry, makes-me-smile-more-than-I-want-to-admit way. I haven’t met him yet, but it’s nice having someone to banter with, even if it’s just emojis and sarcasm. I meant to fold laundry. I really did. But instead, I spiraled into someone’s breakup story for twenty minutes like it was a soap opera.

It wasn’t a bad day. Not really. Just one of those long, weirdly empty ones that stick to you for no reason. Totally normal. Totally forgettable. Still tired though.

 

March 5th

Today started like any other. I grabbed coffee from the cart outside my building, dodged a cab that pretended not to see the crosswalk, and decided to take the long way through Central Park since I was early. The sun was out, the air felt just barely like spring, and it was one of those mornings where I almost felt like the main character.

I was checking my phone, barely looking where I was going, and walked straight into someone near the Bethesda fountain. He caught my arm, just enough to steady me. “Careful, love,” he said, voice low and smooth, soft but confident.

I muttered a quick sorry, brushed my hair behind my ear, and tried not to cringe at myself. Then I looked up. I knew that smile. It was warm, a little crooked, disarming in a movie-scene kind of way. He asked if I was alright. I said yes and kept walking. He didn’t follow or say anything else. Just nodded and turned back toward the path.

It wasn’t until I got to work and sat down at my desk that it hit me. That was train guy. The one with the eyes that didn’t move.

What a coincidence, right?

New York’s big, but it’s not that big. Still, what are the odds of bumping into the same person twice in three days? Odd, sure, but not impossible. I didn’t think too much of it.

Honestly, just one of those weird little city moments.

James texted me again today. We talked about everything and nothing, video game logic, bad coffee, and whether cereal counts as dinner. I know I said he was kinda* funny, but I take that back. He’s pretty funny. And weirdly thoughtful. He remembered something I mentioned days ago and brought it up like it mattered. I don’t want to read into it, but damn. He’s making it hard not to. Genuine? Yeah. He actually seems it.

God, please don’t let me be that girl catching feelings from a guy I haven’t even met yet. Too late? 

 

March 6th

Nothing really happened today. I went to work. Came home. Ate a microwave burrito and finished a show I wasn’t even that into. I think I was just watching it because I hate unfinished things.

Meetings were boring, and Olivia was a nightmare. Again. I swear, her emails are getting longer and somehow saying less every week.

James sent me a meme so stupid I laughed out loud at my desk. Then we spent a good half hour trying to one-up each other with worse ones. I don’t know how he manages to always text at the exact moment I need a break.

Honestly, today just felt like a pause. Like a blank page between actual days. And maybe that’s fine. Just… regular life.

 

March 7th

James asked if I wanted to meet up tomorrow. Just like that. He said there’s this bookstore he likes on the west side and they have a little café inside that does good pastries. I said yes before I even thought about it.

I don’t know why I got nervous after. It’s just coffee. But also… it’s not just coffee. I’ve been talking to this guy every day for weeks, and now the idea of seeing him in person feels like stepping off a curb you didn’t realize was there.

He sent a smiley face. One of the stupid little yellow ones, not even a real emoji. It made me grin like an idiot.

I have no idea what I’m going to wear.

God, don’t let it be awkward. Please let him be as funny and warm and cute in person as he is through a screen.

Okay. Deep breath.

Tomorrow.

 

March 8th

We met at the bookstore around 11. I got there early, because of course I did, and pretended to browse the nonfiction table like I wasn’t anxiously scanning every person who walked through the door. I kept pretending to flip pages I wasn’t reading. And then there he was.

He looked… good. Better than good. Tall, clean-lined coat, that same easy smile from his photos, but somehow even more disarming in person. Like his face relaxed differently when he saw me, like he meant it. I expected a little awkwardness at first, most people have that weird first-meet energy, but he just walked up and said, “You’re actually real,” like it was a quiet punchline to something only we knew. It made me grin like an idiot.

We grabbed coffee from the café in the back and ended up in one of those soft chairs near the windows. We talked for over two hours. Books, movies, weird things we believed as kids. He told me about a childhood fear of mannequins, and I confessed I once thought traffic lights were controlled by little people inside the poles. At one point he made this perfectly-timed sarcastic comment and I laughed so hard I almost choked on my coffee.

It was easy. So easy. The kind of conversation where you forget to check your phone. Where you look up and realize hours passed without noticing. And the whole time, I kept thinking, this might actually be something.

He offered to walk me a few blocks after. I said yes. We strolled without any rush, just talking about nothing in particular. It felt comfortable. He told me about the first time he ever got lost in the city, and I told him about the worst coffee I’ve ever had and why I still go back to that place out of habit.

Then we passed a wine bar, small, quiet, the kind of place people go to disappear into soft music and low conversation. It had those thick wooden tables and windows that always fog a little in the corners. I only glanced in. It was instinct.

And I paused for a second. He was there. Train guy.

Sitting by the window, alone, a glass of red wine in front of him. No menu. No phone. Just him. His hands rested on the table like he hadn’t moved them in a while. And his eyes were already on me. Like he’d been staring through that glass for minutes. Not surprised. Not curious. Just watching.

There was no flicker of recognition. No smile this time. Just that same stillness. This time his jaw looked a little tighter, his eyes slightly narrowed. Not furious, not obvious, but there was something in the way he watched me. Like something had struck a nerve. He brought the glass of wine up to his face while maintaining eye contact, and it felt less like a gesture and more like a challenge.

I didn’t say anything to James. What would I have said? I didn’t even trust myself to look back again. I kept walking, matched his pace, tried not to stumble.

We said goodbye at the corner. He asked if he could see me again soon. I nodded. I smiled. I think I smiled. And then I turned the corner and kept going.

When I got home, I shut the door and stood in my apartment for a while before taking off my coat.

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it wasn’t even him. Maybe it was just the way the light hit his face.

But I remember that face and I know he was looking at me.

 

March 9th

Saw him again.

The morning started off normal. I got up late and had to skip breakfast, surprise, because I spent too long staring at my closet, trying to decide if I looked more like someone who was thriving or just barely holding it together. Settled on the dark jeans and my blue coat. Comfortable. Clean.

The train was crowded, and I had to wedge myself between people, one of whom was way too into their podcasts. By the time I got to the office, I was already tense and a little sweaty. Meetings were back-to-back. Olivia talked over everyone, as usual. I spent the first half of the day rereading the same email thread four times because no one would just give a straight answer.

Around one, I stepped out for lunch and he was outside the office, standing near the corner newsstand. Reading the headlines, but his hands weren’t moving. He didn’t flip a page or shift his weight. He was just there, like a statue.

I wouldn’t have noticed him at all, but when I walked past, he looked up. Eyes locked on me instantly, like he’d been waiting.

I didn’t stop walking. I didn’t say anything. But I felt that tight, cold press at the back of my neck. Like being watched through glass.

I grabbed a sandwich and brought it back to my desk, barely touched it. All afternoon, I kept glancing at the window, half-expecting to see his reflection. I didn’t. But the feeling never left.

 

March 10th

It was my day off, so I tried to start slow. Slept in a little, made actual breakfast, eggs and toast, not just coffee and whatever I could grab on the way out. Took a long shower, let myself exist without rushing for once.

I did laundry. Cleaned out my fridge. Lit a candle and opened the windows because the apartment was starting to smell like takeout. It felt good, like I had control of something, even if it was just wiping down my counters and sorting socks.

James texted around noon. We talked about the date, he wants to try this Vietnamese place in Midtown, and I told him I was already mentally picking out what to wear. He sent a voice note making fun of my indecision, and I replayed it twice because I liked the sound of his laugh. I’m not trying to get ahead of myself, but it’s easy with him. Really easy.

Around four, I walked down to the grocery store to pick up stuff for dinner. It was busy, people crowding the produce aisle, someone arguing on the phone by the deli. I was standing in the checkout line, scrolling aimlessly, when I looked up. And he was outside. Just walking past.

Train guy.

He didn’t look inside. Didn’t glance at me. Just moved by slowly, hands in his pockets, like he had nowhere specific to be. But I knew it was him. Same coat. Same posture. Same calm, deliberate pace.

I told myself it was still a coincidence. Still, I waited a few minutes before leaving. Just in case.

 

March 11th

And again.

I was heading home after running some errands, Target, CVS, the usual boring city loop. It was cold but sunny, that weird New York in-between where the wind makes you regret thinking spring has started. I had my headphones in but wasn’t really listening to anything. Just walking. Going through the motions.

And I saw him again.

Same bench. Near the entrance to the train station I use almost every day. He was just sitting there, like he belonged. Legs crossed, coat neat, hands folded in his lap. Not looking at a phone. Not reading. Not eating. Just sitting and staring out across the street.

This time, I saw him first. That was worse, somehow. Because I had a choice, keep walking or go around. Pretend I didn’t see him or acknowledge that I did.

My stomach twisted. I felt that awful internal jolt, like my body recognized something before my brain could explain it. I didn’t stop walking, didn’t slow down, but I crossed the street before I got close.

I glanced over once from across the intersection. He hadn’t moved. Just sitting. Still. Watching nothing and everything at once.

I ducked into a bodega I didn’t need anything from and stayed in there for fifteen minutes pretending to browse gum and instant ramen. When I finally came out, the bench was empty. I told myself that should make me feel better. It didn’t.

 

March 12th

I didn’t even plan to take the train today. I had told myself I’d walk. Get some air, stretch my legs, maybe feel more like myself again. But I woke up late, my phone was dead, and I panicked about being late to meet Jenna uptown, so I grabbed my coat and headed straight for the 6.

I got on near the back of the second car. It was busy, not rush hour crowded, but enough people to make finding a seat feel like winning something. I spotted one open near the end, slid in, pulled out my phone to scroll nothing. I didn’t notice him at first.

Two stops in, I looked up, and there he was.

Two seats down. Same coat. Same posture. Head tilted slightly down, like he was reading something in his lap. But there was nothing in his hands.

Then he looked at me.

Not a glance. Not one of those quick, casual flashes people give strangers. He turned his head, slow and smooth, and looked directly at me. No smile. No emotion. Just stared like it was expected of him. Like he was right on schedule.

I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. My skin tightened. It was the kind of fear that makes you too still. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even swallow. My stop wasn’t for five more stations.

But I got up. Didn’t wait. Didn’t care if I looked crazy. I pulled the cord and got off two stops early. Didn’t even know what neighborhood I was in.

I walked four blocks before I looked behind me. He wasn’t there. But I don’t know if that actually made it better.

 

March 13th

I’ve started looking for him before I leave buildings now. It’s not even something I think about, it’s just automatic. Glance around the corner. Check the sidewalk. Scan faces. Pretend to check my phone so I can tilt my head just enough to see behind me without looking suspicious.

He’s not always close. But he’s always within reach, like he’s figured out how to be near without ever crossing the line. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move toward me. He’s just… there. Quiet. Constant. Like a shadow that doesn’t need the sun.

Yesterday he was outside the drugstore in the evening after the first encounter. Today it was across from the dry cleaner. I turned around on the escalator and saw him standing near the bottom, not moving. No one else seemed to notice him and those that did just admired how beautiful he was.

I keep telling myself I’m being dramatic. That it’s nothing. That it’ll stop. But deep down, I know better.

James called me tonight. He could hear it in my voice. Asked if I was okay. I told him I was tired, but the words didn’t sit right coming out of my mouth. He paused and said he missed me, and that he’s really looking forward to our date tomorrow. I almost cried. Because I didn’t know how to say I feel like I’m being followed in broad daylight. Like someone’s pressing in on the edges of my life, inch by inch, and no one else sees it.

But I do. I see him. Everywhere.

 

March 14th

I didn’t cancel. I thought about it. I even typed out a message to James, “Hey, I’m not feeling great, can we reschedule?”, but I couldn’t hit send. I wanted to see him. I needed something to feel normal again.

We met at the restaurant around 7. It was warm inside, dimly lit, with little hanging lanterns above each table. James was already there, waving me over from a booth near the back. He stood up when I walked in. I don’t know why, but that small gesture almost made me tear up.

He looked really good. Clean shirt, navy jacket, fresh shave. He smiled at me like nothing in the world was wrong, and for a second, I almost let myself believe it. Almost.

We ordered drinks. I went with a vermicelli bowl. He got pho. The food came fast, and everything smelled amazing. James was talking about his sister’s upcoming wedding, some drama about flower arrangements and a lost RSVP, when I felt that pull. I turned my head. And there he was. Train guy.

Sitting alone at a table across the restaurant. Not hidden, not subtle. Just there. A small table for two, though no one sat across from him. A glass of water, untouched. No menu. No phone visible. His eyes weren’t scanning the room. They were on me. Locked.

And he looked, furious. His jaw was tight, his mouth set like stone. That same stillness, but sharper now. Almost vibrating underneath. Like if he moved, something would break.

I turned back to James, trying not to react. I smiled too hard at whatever he just said. Took a long sip of my drink. Nodded like everything was fine. Like I didn’t feel my hands go clammy. After a few minutes, James went quiet. He leaned in and said, “You okay? You’ve been a little off tonight.”

I said I was just tired, long day, not sleeping well. He didn’t push, but I could tell he didn’t fully buy it.

He walked me home afterward. Held my hand the whole way like he knew I needed it.

When we got to my door, I hesitated. Then I told him. Not everything, but enough. About the man from the train. About seeing him over and over again. I didn’t say stalker, I couldn’t bring myself to say the word, but I didn’t have to. James’s face changed. His whole posture shifted. He didn’t joke or brush it off.

He asked why I didn’t tell him in the restaurant. Then tried to reassure me saying, “It’s ok, we will figure this out tomorrow. Try to get a good rest.” He said he’d walk me to work tomorrow. And he hugged me. Tight. I think I almost started breathing again.

 

March 15th

I barely slept. Every creak in the walls, every car that passed outside, every shift of shadow on the ceiling, I noticed all of it. I got up twice to check the locks. Once just to look out the peephole.

James walked me to work, just like he said he would. He didn’t try to fill the silence, didn’t pressure me to explain anything more. He just showed up with coffee and stayed close. When we got to the office, he squeezed my hand and said, “Text me when you’re done.”

The whole day felt like it dragged. I couldn’t concentrate. Every time someone walked by the office windows, I looked. I didn’t see him. Not then. But tonight, I could’ve sworn he was outside my apartment.

It was late, maybe a little past eleven. I had finally settled in, lights low, laptop open, some mindless show playing just to fill the quiet. I got up to rinse my mug and as I passed by the front windows, I paused. Something was there. Just beyond the streetlight, on the other side of the road, leaning against a streetlight. Not moving. Not smoking. Just there.

I didn’t turn on the light. I stayed back. Watched from behind the curtain. My heart was pounding so loud I thought it might give me away. I couldn’t be sure it was him. It was dark. But the posture, the stillness, the shape, it was him. I know it.

I stayed there for twenty minutes. He didn’t move.

And then, like something out of a bad dream, a car passed between us. And when it was gone, so was he. No footsteps. No noise. Just gone.

I’m writing this now because I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll convince myself it didn’t happen. But it did. It’s getting worse. And I don’t know what to do.

 

March 16th

I took a different route downtown today. I told myself it was just to get some fresh air, but really I wanted to see if I could shake the feeling. The one that’s been glued to my spine for over a week.

I saw him again. It started near Delancey. I crossed the street without thinking, and when I turned my head to check for traffic, I saw him. Just across the intersection. Not walking fast, not pretending not to see me. Just matching my pace from half a block back.

I ducked into a coffee shop. Ordered something I didn’t want. Waited ten minutes. Came back out. He was still there. Leaning against a storefront now, watching cars go by. Or maybe watching me.

Should I go to the police? I kept thinking about it all the way down Canal Street. Would they even believe me? I don’t have proof. Not really. Just glances. Just moments. What if this is all coincidence? What if I’m the one making it into something it isn’t? Maybe he lives near me. Maybe he works downtown. Maybe I’ve just connected dots that were never supposed to connect.

Maybe I’m losing it.

I was near the corner of Centre when it happened. A man, mid-40s, drunk or pretending to be, walked too close and said something sexual after me. I ignored it. Kept walking, like I’ve done a hundred times. I didn’t even flinch. But then I heard shouting behind me.

I turned. The man was on the ground. On his back. Arms up, trying to shield his face. And Train Guy was on top of him. He didn’t say anything. Just kicked him. Again and again. His face was twisted with rage, it wasn’t wild or uncontrolled, but cold. Like he’d decided. The man screamed, tried to crawl. People watching and moving around them like they see this every day.Another kick to the ribs. Blood. Someone shouted. I gasped.

Train Guy looked up. And when our eyes met, everything stopped. His face shifted, softened, just for a second. And I swear, I swear, his eyes said, ‘See? This is what I do for you.’ Like the violence was a favor. Like he wanted me to be grateful.

I ran. I didn’t wait. I didn’t look back. I’m shaking just writing this. My hands won’t stop. This is real. Whatever this is, it’s not a game. And it’s not in my head. I don’t know what to do.

James can tell something’s wrong. I’ve started pulling away, not on purpose, but I flinch when he touches me or speaks too softly behind me. I keep checking windows, mirrors, side streets. I hate what this is doing to me.

He offered to take me out of the city for the weekend. Somewhere quiet. Just us, somewhere I could breathe. I said maybe. I haven’t packed. He even asked if I wanted him to confront the guy, Train Guy. He said it like he could fix it. Like it was a problem he could punch into submission. But I saw what that man did to someone else in broad daylight. I said no.

James didn’t press. But he looked at me like he wanted to do something. Anything. He’s genuinely scared for me. And I’m starting to wonder if I should be more scared than I already am.

 

March 17th

I confronted him today.

It wasn’t planned. I didn’t wake up thinking, “Today’s the day I’m going to talk to the man who’s been following me.” I woke up thinking about laundry and toothpaste and how I need to stop ignoring James’s texts. I wasn’t thinking clearly, maybe that’s why I did it.

I saw him on Spring Street, right by that bakery I used to like. He was leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for someone. I was across the street before I noticed. I could’ve walked away. Could’ve turned around. But something in me snapped. Or maybe I’d just finally had it.

I crossed. Walked straight toward him. He looked up like he’d been expecting me. That same disarming face. That smooth, neutral expression that should’ve been forgettable if it weren’t carved so perfectly.

“Why are you following me?” I asked.

He blinked. Then smiled. Tilted his head, like I’d just asked the weather to apologize.

“I’m sorry?” he said. His voice was warm, pleasant. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

“You’ve been on my train. At my grocery store. My apartment. I saw you beat that man.”

His smile didn’t fade, but it softened. Almost amused.

“Oh,” he said, like I’d just admitted something intimate. “So you have noticed me.”

My heart was racing so fast I could barely think. But I held my ground. “You need to stop,” I told him.

He let out a short breath, like a laugh. “I think you’re mistaken. I’m just living my life, same as you. Coincidences happen in this city all the time.”

I couldn’t stand how calm he was. The amusement in his eyes. How beautiful he still looked in the middle of all this. I hated that part of me still noticed. That it mattered.

He stepped aside, as if offering me the sidewalk. “Have a good afternoon.”

And I walked. Fast. I didn’t look back. I told myself not to look back.

But as I turned the corner, I said something. I don’t know why I said it, or what I meant to do with it.

“I know your face.”

He smiled wider at that, like I’d just given him a gift. “Of course you do,” he said, eyes gleaming. “I’m your soulmate. You were always going to know me.”

Then, in that same gentle, mocking voice, he added, “Good luck with your meeting. I’ll see you later, love.”

Those words. All unassuming. Not even loud. But the second they left his mouth, I knew. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t innocent. He was toying with me. Every smile, every coincidence, every soft word, none of it was random.

It was a game. And I’d just admitted I was playing. I don’t know what happens now. But I haven’t stopped thinking about that smile. That voice. That look that said he knew exactly where I’d be next.

 

March 18th

I went to the police today.

I sat across from a tired-looking officer with kind eyes and a badge that said L. Cohen. I told him everything. As much as I could get out. The train. The grocery store. The bench. The restaurant. The attack. His face when he said he was my soulmate. I didn’t even realize I was crying until the officer slid a box of tissues across the desk.

He asked if the man had ever touched me. I said no. He asked if I had photos. Proof. Messages. Threats. I didn’t. He said there wasn’t much they could do. Not until he did something.

I thanked him anyway. I don’t know why. Habit, maybe.

When I got outside, I called James. I didn’t mean to. My fingers just… did it. He picked up on the second ring, and as soon as I heard his voice, I lost it. I was crying before I could even say hi. I think I scared him.

He asked if I was safe. If I needed him. He said he could be at my place in twenty minutes, just say the word. He offered to stay with me for a few days. Suggested again that we pack a bag, go upstate, take a break from all of this.

I told him it was okay. That I just needed sleep. I don’t even remember if I said goodbye.

When I got back to my building, I saw them. The new receptionist, the one who just started last week, was at the front desk. And he was standing on the other side of the counter. Laughing. My stomach dropped. They were talking like friends. Like neighbors. Like normal people. Then he saw me.

He waved and smiled wide. “Hey honey, how was work?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even look at him. I walked faster, head down, hands shaking.

But I heard him. He sighed and said, “She’s mad at me. Still upset about our argument last night.”

The receptionist made a sympathetic sound and said, “Flowers always get the job done.”

I wanted to turn around. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that man is a stranger. He’s an intruder. He’s following me. That I’ve never spoken to him outside of yesterday. That I don’t even know his name. But my mouth wouldn’t work. I was paralyzed.

Later that night, a massive bouquet of flowers. Leaning against my door, like a promise.

Roses. Dozens of them, easily over a hundred. All a rich red color, almost like the color of blood. Delicate, expensive, perfect.

It brought tears to my eyes. Not because it was sweet. But because it meant he’d been here. Right outside my door. Close enough to touch the handle. Close enough to hear me breathing if I was near the other side.

I didn’t take them in. I just stared at them for a long time. And then I locked every single bolt on my door. Twice.

 

March 19th

I didn’t sleep.

Around 6 a.m., I sent James a message. Just said, “Can you come stay with me for a few days? Please.”

I know it sounds crazy, we haven’t even known each other that long in person. But he calmed me. I felt safer when he was around. Like if I could just hear his voice in the next room, I wouldn’t feel like I was unraveling alone.

No reply, he was probably still sleeping. I didn’t leave the apartment.

I called in sick. Said I had a migraine. Which I guess wasn’t a lie. My head’s been pulsing behind my eyes since last night. I didn’t eat. I didn’t shower. I didn’t even open the curtains. I sat on the couch, curled under a blanket, jumping at every noise in the hallway, every door that closed too loud, every elevator ding.

What if he was still out there? What if he was just waiting? I couldn’t bring myself to check. I spent hours online, looking up apartment listings. Mostly out of state. Colorado, Oregon, Arizona, anywhere that sounded far. But I kept coming back to Texas. Maybe I should call my mom. Ask if I could stay with her for a while. Just until I found something permanent. Just until I felt like a person again.

But I didn’t. I imagined how I’d explain it. What I’d say. How I’d make it make sense. How I’d tell her I was being watched, stalked, hunted by a man whose name I still don’t know, but who knows mine. I told myself he’d get bored eventually. That if I stayed quiet, invisible, he’d lose interest. Fade away. Find someone else to orbit.

It’s almost midnight now. James still hasn’t responded.

 

March 20th

James still hasn’t responded. I am trying not to overthink it, maybe a family emergency came up? Maybe he got tired of my bullshit and doesn’t want anything to do with this mess. But he’s always been so genuine. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m still home, refusing to leave without him. I think I should try to sleep. It’s daytime, maybe the lack of sleep is what’s making it all worse. I just put on a cartoon movie, hopefully it will put me to sleep.

 

11:23 A.M.

I don’t know how long I have. I can’t think straight. I just need to get this down in case.

I was napping when I heard the front door open. Not knock. Open. The sound was soft, like someone who belonged here. Like someone who’d done it before. At first I thought maybe it was James. Maybe he finally came. But that didn’t make sense..how would he get in? He didn’t even know my apartment number.

But then I heard the humming. The humming and the clinking of dishes in the kitchen. Something being unwrapped. A knife on the cutting board. Like lunch. Like home. I’m in the bedroom. Too afraid to move. I can hear footsteps now. Slow, confident ones. Getting closer. Just outside the, oh my god. I think he’s right outside the do

 

March 20th

 She always kept her journal on the nightstand, precisely aligned, just beneath the lamp she seldom turned off. A small, ritualistic habit I found endearing. I suppose it’s only fitting that I write in it now, document the story as it was meant to be told. Ours. A story worthy of permanence, worthy of being remembered.

The first time I saw her, something stirred in me. It wasn’t mere attraction, no, what I felt was resonance. As though some cosmic pendulum had stopped its arc and acknowledged what had finally, inevitably, arrived. Her.

The train was crowded, murmuring with the subdued shuffle of morning routines. She was standing across from me behind a few people, slightly turned inward as though cocooned from the world. One hand gripped the overhead strap, knuckles subtly pale. The other adjusted the tote wedged at her side, an ordinary bag, but burdened with familiarity. Her lips were parted ever so slightly, caught somewhere between breath and thought.

And then, as people shifted and the train emptied out, she looked up.

It was brief, a fraction of a moment, but it was seismic. Our eyes met. And in that instant, reality lost its fidelity. The soundscape dulled, the rhythm of the train dissolved into silence, and everything unessential fell away. The entire world refracted around her.

Her features resolved into devastating clarity. Wide, contemplative eyes that carried exhaustion like a poem. A mouth subtly pursed, betraying a mind too full. A tension in her brow that made me wonder what she had endured. I wanted to reach into that moment and smooth it away.

My heart didn’t simply quicken. It surged, an ungovernable force tearing through my chest as though it recognized her before I could. As though some deeper version of myself had been waiting, breath held, for her gaze to land on mine.

I smiled. Not out of impulse, but instinct. A full, genuine gesture, unguarded in its certainty.

She looked away. No smile.

I remember feeling genuinely perplexed. How could she not feel it? The echo between us? It was unmistakable, undeniable. Surely, she felt it too. Surely??

I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think. My mind was a locked reel playing her face, her expression, that single moment on repeat. I had to know who she was, what her name was, where she went after that train ride, what she liked in her coffee, how she spoke when she wasn’t afraid.

So I did what any man with means would do: I hired someone. A quiet man with a mathematician’s precision and no moral questions. Money was his language, and I spoke it fluently. By the following evening, he had constructed a preliminary map of her existence. Her full name, address, employer, even the floor she worked on. Even her favorite coffee order, oat milk, two pumps vanilla, extra hot.

I began to watch. Not to spy, no, but to learn. To appreciate. Observing her felt like reading sheet music for a song I had always known by instinct but never by structure. Each movement, each pause, each smile was a verse in our unwritten symphony.

She was never random. She was made with purpose. My purpose.

When I saw her with him, laughing, her fingers brushing his coat sleeve as they walked, I felt something in me tear like wet paper. It was a grief too dangerously close to rage. She didn’t understand. Not then. But she would. I forgave her. What else could love do? Love is vast. It is enduring. But it is not generous with rivals. No other man had the right to touch what was mine. Not her hand. Not her gaze.

So I waited for the moment the world would turn in our favor. For the opening in time when I could step in, protect what was already mine, and ensure she would never feel unsafe again.

I would care for her. I would protect her. And I would never, ever let anyone hurt her, not even herself.

Getting into the apartment was simple. The receptionist was new. All it took was a bit of charm. Said I forgot my key. Told her my wife was at work and couldn’t let me in. When she didn’t speak to me that day in the lobby, it only made it more believable. I knew her so intimately, I knew she wouldn’t. The receptionist smiled and said of course.

As we rode the elevator, I told her my wife had forgiven me. She smiled again, said she was glad. She opened the door for me and I got to making lunch.

When lunch was ready, I stepped into the bedroom. She was there, my love, folded in on herself like a wounded thing. Her back pressed to the headboard, knees drawn to her chest. Her eyes, wild, glassy with tears, found mine, and I felt a cruel twist deep in my gut.

She was afraid of me.

Her lips trembled as she whispered, “Please don’t hurt me.” The sound barely crossed the room. Her voice, so delicate, so impossibly soft, sounded like it might shatter if repeated.

I crouched beside her, careful, reverent, and touched her cheek with the backs of my fingers.

“I would never hurt you,” I said, each word enunciated with calm, loving precision. “Never.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. As if even the effort of motion might betray her.

I gathered her gently into my arms. Her body was stiff, breath shallow, as if she believed resistance would protect her. I held her anyway, steady, soothing.

“Breathe,” I murmured against her temple, threading my fingers through her hair. “You’re safe now. Just breathe.”

Her terror broke me, but I reminded myself, this was only the beginning. She didn’t yet understand. But she would. Understanding takes time. Love takes patience. I had both.

Eventually, I coaxed her to her feet and guided her to the kitchen. She didn’t resist, only walked like someone drifting through water.

I seated her gently on the high stool by the island.

“You must eat,” I told her. “You’ve lost weight. I’ve been worried.”

I’d prepared something extraordinary, a meal sculpted with care and intention. The knife work was elegant, the presentation flawless, each component chosen for her palate. It could have graced any fine dining table in Paris or Milan.

Growing up alone, I learned to fill the silence with skill. Our family’s chef, a quiet, meticulous man, had become something of a mentor. Under his instruction, I discovered that cooking was a form of devotion.

She stared at the food like it had betrayed her. The tears didn’t stop. Just slid down her cheeks as if her body had nothing left to give but sorrow.

I reached for her, gently, as though my touch might mend the tremble in her posture, intending only to brush a strand of hair from her face. That’s when she asked it.

“Did you do something to James?”

I smiled.

Not a careless grin, no, an award-winning smile. The kind honed over years of charm, diplomacy, and control. The kind that made strangers trust you. She began to cry harder, her breathing faltered as she tried to catch her breath.

“Technically my love,” I replied, my tone quiet and meticulous, “it was you. You went on a date with another man. You held his hand. You laughed with him. That wasn’t very kind, was it?”

She looked as though her lungs had collapsed, like the very act of breathing now required permission.

“You belong to me,” I said, softly, as if reminding her of something sacred. “You should’ve known better.”

I reached for her fork to demonstrate the meal’s warmth, to take a symbolic bite and reassure her, but she flinched.

The reaction pierced something in me. My heart twisted from the aching grief of being misunderstood.

Still, it was alright.

I had the resources. The means. The devotion. She would no longer need to concern herself with trivial responsibilities. She’d resign from that job. The world outside these walls would blur into irrelevance.

We would stay here. Together. Safe.

She would learn to smile again.

She would learn to love me.

And then…

Our forever would truly begin.