The phone lay on the floor, screen up, glowing dimly in the dark room.
Purvi stared at it, her breathing shallow, a cold sweat crawling down her spine.
"Look closer, Purvi. The story you're writing… it's not fiction."
Those words kept echoing in her mind, louder than the silence around her, louder than the thundering of her heart.
She forced herself to pick up the phone again. Her fingers were shaking.
No new messages. No typing bubbles. Nothing.
She opened the chat. The number still showed as "Unknown." No name. No photo. No history. Just those three chilling messages.
A prank?
Her rational mind screamed for her to dismiss it. People had done worse for attention. She remembered being seventeen and hospitalized for a month — strangers online would send her motivational quotes, and some would pretend to be dying too. She had learned early that people hid behind screens. Some were kind. Some were cruel. Some just wanted to be seen.
But this didn't feel like that.
This felt… deliberate.
"Did you really think he'd tell you everything before leaving?"
Ayaan. Her heart twisted. It had to be about him. What else could it mean?
They had promised each other there would be no secrets. That even if the truth was painful, they'd share it. That love had to be built on honesty or it wouldn't survive.
She wanted to believe he had told her everything.
But love — she was beginning to realize — had cracks. And in silence, those cracks whispered louder than words.
She turned on her bedside lamp. The soft yellow light didn't warm the room. If anything, it made the shadows darker, sharper. Her notebooks lay open on the desk, the half-written story still untouched.
She stood, her knees weak, and crossed the room slowly.
She sat down in front of the open window. The same window that had always comforted her. The world outside looked normal — peaceful, quiet, resting.
But tonight, everything felt wrong.
The air was too still. The shadows too deep.
She picked up her notebook. The latest chapter of her story was supposed to be about a boy she had seen every morning — a teenager in a hoodie who waited at the bus stop, always chewing gum, always staring at his phone. She'd made up a story about him being secretly in love with the girl across the street. It was sweet. Light.
But now, her mind was fogged. The words refused to come.
She flipped to the first page of her notebook.
It was dated January 14th — the day she had started writing about the people she saw. Her notes were detailed. Names she had given them. Routines. Stories. Emotions. Most of them had never known she was watching. But some had looked up, smiled, even waved.
And one...
Her hand froze.
One had stared.
Not smiled. Not waved.
Just stared.
She flipped rapidly through the notebook.
There — March 8th.
"There's a man who sits on the third bench by the bakery. Tall. Wears a grey coat, even when it's hot. Doesn't talk to anyone. Doesn't move. Just stares at the window sometimes. At me? I don't know. Gave me chills today. Looked right into my room. Wrote him into the chapter as a ghost. Felt easier that way."
Her breath caught.
She hadn't seen him in weeks. Hadn't really thought about it. Maybe he moved. Maybe it was nothing.
But suddenly, that note felt like something else. Like a breadcrumb she'd dropped and forgotten.
And then, her phone vibrated again.
She jumped.
New message.
Same unknown number.
Unknown:"He's still watching."
She stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor.
Her fingers flew across the screen.
Purvi:"Who are you?"
Purvi:"What do you want?"
Purvi:"Is this about Ayaan?"
Three dots appeared.
Then stopped.
Appeared again.
Stopped.
She waited, heart racing.
Then the reply came:
Unknown:"You think you see everything from that window. But windows go both ways."
Purvi's eyes shot to the glass in front of her. Her reflection stared back — pale, wide-eyed, trembling.
She didn't turn off the light. She couldn't.
What if someone was watching?
She stepped back. Slowly. Like prey retreating from something it couldn't see but knew was near.
A sudden knock at the door downstairs made her scream.
Her legs nearly gave out.
But it was followed by a voice. Familiar. Concerned.
"Purvi? It's Ma! Open the door, beta."
She bolted downstairs, fumbling with the latch.
Her mother entered with her dupatta wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her face drawn with worry.
"Why was your phone off for so long?" she asked. "I've been calling. What's wrong? You look— Purvi, you're shaking!"
"I…" Purvi tried to speak. "I just— I dropped my phone. I didn't hear it."
Her mother stepped forward and cupped her cheek. "You're burning up. You haven't eaten, have you?"
Purvi shook her head.
Her mother exhaled sharply, then turned toward the kitchen. "Come. I made your favorite — moong dal khichdi. You need something warm."
But Purvi stayed frozen.
Her mind screamed to tell her mother. But something stopped her.
Fear? Shame? Or the idea that if she said it out loud, it would become real?
Instead, she followed quietly. Ate a few bites. Let her mother talk about her aunty's swollen feet and someone's daughter getting married.
But her eyes kept flicking to her phone. Waiting.
Later, when her mother finally left — after kisses and reassurances and turning the hallway light on "just in case" — Purvi crept back to her window.
The street was still quiet.
She picked up her camera.
It was a small DSLR — one she had saved for over months, used mostly to photograph clouds and corners of life others missed. She set it on the tripod and pointed it at the street. Adjusted the zoom. Clicked once. Twice. A third time.
Then she downloaded the images onto her laptop.
She scanned the photos.
Nothing.
She zoomed in.
Third bench near the bakery — empty.
Still, her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Then she saw it.
In the far right corner of one frame — just behind a lamp post — a blurry silhouette.
It was grainy. Shadowed. Almost invisible.
But it was there.
A figure.
Still. Unmoving.
Watching.
Her throat tightened.
She zoomed in further, pixel by pixel, until the image broke.
The phone buzzed again.
Unknown:"You saw him, didn't you?"
Purvi stared at the screen, her breath ragged.
Purvi:"Who is he? What do you want from me?"
This time, the reply came instantly.
Unknown:"It's not what I want. It's what you need to know."
Unknown:"Check the notebook. April 2nd."
She grabbed her journal, flipping pages fast.
April 2nd.
There it was:
"Saw the man again today. But this time he smiled. Not in a friendly way. Like he knew something. Like he'd been waiting. I felt sick afterward. Threw up twice. Don't want to write today."
Purvi's eyes widened.
She remembered that day. It was the first time she'd had that migraine. The same night she started feeling breathless again. The doctors thought it was just stress. The meds helped. Eventually, she forgot.
But what if it wasn't nothing?
What if it was connected?
Her phone rang.
Not a message.
A call.
No Caller ID.
She froze.
Let it ring.
It stopped.
Then a voicemail.
With trembling fingers, she pressed play.
The message was just breathing.
Heavy. Raspy. Like someone standing too close to the mic. Like someone standing too close to her.
She dropped the phone again.
And then came the sound she feared most.
A soft knock — not at the door.
At the window.
Her heart stopped.
She didn't turn.
Couldn't.
She just stood, frozen.
The knock came again.
Soft. Almost polite.
Terror rooted her in place. Her mind screamed to run, to hide, to scream.
But she finally turned.
And there it was.
A piece of paper, slid under the windowpane.
Folded. No name.
She opened it with trembling hands.
"The story ends where it began. But only if you're brave enough to see it."
And at the bottom — in familiar handwriting, one she couldn't mistake — was a single name:
Ayaan.
To be continued…