The knock came again—louder this time. Desperate. Frantic.
"Open the door! Hurry up! A strange person is stalking me!"
My heart raced as I stared at the door, my hand hovering over the knob. That was my roommate’s voice. No doubt about it.
I took a shaky step forward when my phone rang, jolting me.
It was her name on the screen.
I answered with trembling fingers.
"Hello?"
"Don't open the door!" she cried. "It's not me! Please, don’t open it!"
The world seemed to tilt. My breath caught in my throat as I turned back toward the door.
"Please..." The voice outside was softer now. Weak. Pleading.
"You’re really going to leave me out here? After everything?"
How did he do it? The voice—exactly like hers. Every word. Every breath.
I backed away. My phone was still against my ear.
"Where are you?" I whispered.
"I'm at the convenience store downstairs," she said. "I left to get snacks. He must’ve followed me from the station. He’s real. He’s dangerous!"
I ran to the window and peeled back the curtain just a crack. A man stood across the street, face obscured by the shadow of his hoodie. Still. Watching.
My heart stopped.
He lifted a hand—slowly—and waved at me.
There was no smile. Just a stare so intense it felt like a wire tightening around my throat.
Then he turned and vanished down the street.
When I finally opened the door, no one was there.
But taped to the hallway mirror was a Polaroid photo—of me, sleeping in bed.
And behind it, written in smeared red ink:
"You’re even more beautiful when you’re scared."
That night, I checked every drawer, every corner. I found a small, hidden camera behind my bookshelf. In the laundry basket, I found one of my missing bras—neatly folded.
My diary was gone.
And in its place...
A letter, scrawled in familiar handwriting:
“We don’t need them. I know everything about you already.”
Then, the door clicked shut.
And someone whispered my name from inside the room.
My blood turned to ice.
I spun around, pressing my back to the wall, eyes scanning every shadow of the room.
“Who's there?” I whispered, though my voice barely made a sound.
Silence.
Then the whisper again, just behind my ear this time. “You smell like vanilla tonight.”
I screamed and bolted for the door, but it slammed shut before I could reach it. The lock clicked.
I wasn’t alone.
The lights flickered, and for a split second, I saw him in the reflection of the mirror—tall, lean, and absurdly beautiful in a haunting way. Tousled black hair. A sharp jawline. Eyes that burned like a wolf in the dark.
He wasn’t just a stalker. He was obsessed.
"You never noticed, did you?" His voice floated through the room—her voice, my roommate’s—then melted into a deep, velvety tone that sent shivers crawling down my spine.
"I've been with you for months. Every day. Every night. I know how you bite your lip when you’re thinking, how you hum in the shower, how you cry quietly under your blanket so no one hears."
I stepped back, hand reaching behind me for something—anything—to defend myself with. I grabbed a glass from my desk and hurled it in the direction of the voice.
Crash.
Silence.
Then… soft laughter.
His laughter. Low. Dangerous.
"You’re scared," he said gently. "But I’m not here to hurt you. Not unless you try to leave me again."
The lights came back on.
He stood in the corner now, arms relaxed at his sides, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"I imitated your roommate’s voice so I could talk to you. I took your things because I missed you. You didn’t see me, but I saw you. I watched you fall asleep. I kissed your forehead when you were too tired to notice."
I backed toward the closet, trying to keep him in my sight. "You’re insane," I said, my voice shaking.
He tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely puzzled. "No. I’m in love."
Then he pulled something from his pocket—my necklace. The one I thought I lost months ago.
"I want to take care of you, the way no one else can. You’ll see. You were always meant to be mine."
He took a step forward.
I reached for my phone—gone.
The window—locked.
There was no way out.
And his smile widened. "Let’s start over," he said. "Just you and me, darling. No more lies. No more pretending you don’t feel it too."
Because deep down, I knew…
He wasn’t going to let me go.
Not ever.
I ran.
Past the desk, around the bed, toward the bathroom—but he was fast. Too fast. He caught me by the wrist mid-sprint, pulling me backward so hard I slammed into his chest.
He smelled like cold rain and something metallic. His arms wrapped around me tightly. Not cruel, but possessive.
"Shh," he whispered, stroking my hair. "You’ll hurt yourself. I don’t want that. Never that."
I screamed and kicked, clawing at his face, but he didn’t fight back.
He just… smiled. "You're still so full of fight. That’s what I love about you."
Then he pressed something sharp to my neck—a needle.
The last thing I heard was his soft, obsessive voice: "Sleep for now, my love. When you wake up, you’ll be home."
---
When I woke, the world was unfamiliar. Clean, white walls. Silk sheets. No windows. A camera in every corner.
I was in a villa.
Isolated.
Silent.
Beautiful.
And caged.
Days blurred. He brought me food, new clothes, books he thought I’d like. He spoke gently, treated me with care—but the locks were never off.
He’d sit beside me at dinner, brushing my hair behind my ear. "You look happier today," he’d say. "You’re beginning to see it, aren’t you? That this is better. Safer."
I didn’t respond at first. I just ate. I avoided his eyes. I planned.
But there was no escape. Every door was reinforced. My screams vanished into miles of forest beyond the walls. No neighbors. No signal.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And slowly…
I stopped resisting.
He painted for me. Played piano. Read my favorite novels out loud. He memorized my moods, calmed my fears, whispered sweet things to lull me to sleep.
"You’re mine, and I’m yours. That’s how it’s always been," he’d say, kissing my forehead like a lover. Like a husband.
I should’ve hated him.
I tried to.
But my mind began to fold in on itself.
One day, he brought me a necklace—my own, the one he’d repaired. I took it. Wore it. Thanked him.
He smiled like the sun. "You’re finally choosing me," he said.
"No more running. No more fear."
And I believed him.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I needed to.
Because in his world—his beautiful, twisted world—love was the only way to survive.
---
Years later, my friend would ask: Why didn’t you run?
But I did.
I ran, again and again.
And every time…
He found me.
Loved me harder.
Until one day, I stopped running.
And started smiling.
I can't live without him.
And the only place I felt safe—was in his arms.
