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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2

My brain reacted faster than my body could. Instead of going to the door like a normal person would, every instinct warned me against it. I didn't know who was out there or what they wanted, and the idea of unlocking that door made my skin crawl. So I chose the safer option, the balcony on the upper floor. From there, I'd have a clear view without putting myself in front of whoever it was.

I moved quietly, my footsteps softened by the carpeted stairs. Jojo followed halfway before stopping at the bottom, ears perked and eyes alert, as if even he understood the need for silence right now. I reached the landing and crept toward the glass door leading to the balcony, careful not to let the floor creak beneath me.

My fingers curled around the handle, and I slid the door open just enough to slip through. The faint sound of the frame shifting made me freeze, listening, waiting. When nothing followed, I slowly leaned forward, inching my head past the edge of the wall just enough to peer down at the front door.

But the space was empty.

No figure, no movement, not even the outline of someone walking away. I frowned, narrowing my eyes as I scanned the path, the steps, the walkway leading up to the house. The street beyond looked just as deserted as when I'd arrived. The kind of stillness that didn't feel peaceful, more like it was staged.

The wind had stilled completely, almost unnaturally, as if even the air didn't dare move. The lamps along the road flickered once again, slow and uneven, throwing weak halos of light across the pavement. Their buzzing sounded louder in the quiet, almost like static ringing in my ears. I waited another few seconds, watching for any shift in the shadows, any sign of someone lingering nearby.

Nothing.

Just my house, the street, and that unsettling silence pressing down on everything.

I pulled out my phone and typed a quick reply to Preeti.

"I see no one."

She answered with a typing bubble first, then two messages,

"?"

"Oh, he's gone but I swear to God, someone was there."

I didn't dismiss her words. There was sincerity in the way she phrased it, like she had watched him long enough to be sure. A moment later, another text arrived.

"Maybe a delivery boy? Looking for the right address. Sorry, I might have mistaken."

And then,

"You know me, I overthink a lot."

I stared at the screen, but something in her apology didn't convince me. Preeti wasn't the type to panic over nothing. She was cautious, yes, careful with people, careful with herself, but not the kind to randomly imagine a man standing outside someone's door for no reason. The way she described it lingered in my head, each word leaving a trail of unease that curled itself deeper into my thoughts.

I glanced one more time at the empty front step before stepping back inside the house, quietly shutting the balcony door behind me.

The silence inside wasn't any more comforting than the quiet outside. The air felt heavy, like the walls were absorbing every sound and keeping it trapped. I could still feel that strange sensation of being watched, maybe not actively in that moment, but recently, closely, intently.

I needed to shake it off before it followed me into my dreams.

So I grabbed a towel from the linen cabinet and headed toward the bathroom. The simple idea of a hot shower felt like the only thing that could rinse away the feeling clinging to my skin. The tiles were cold under my feet as I closed the door behind me, and for a few seconds I just leaned against the sink, staring at my reflection.

My eyes looked tired. Not from the day, tired in a deeper way, from overthinking, from pretending everything was fine.

Maybe a shower would help. Maybe it wouldn't.

Either way, it was better than standing still and listening to the silence breathe.

___________

The first rays of morning sunlight crept through my curtains, brushing my face with a soft warmth I barely noticed.

Sunday mornings used to mean something to me. They carried a kind of quiet excitement, late alarms, lazy breakfasts, and plans that felt effortless. But lately, they've lost their charm. This one, especially, felt hollow in a way I couldn't ignore. Without college to pull me out of bed or give me a reason to interact with people, the day stretched out in front of me like an empty hallway. My routine had vanished with my classes, and with it went whatever small sense of purpose I had left.

I thought about calling my friends, maybe suggesting brunch or a movie, but the idea burned out as quickly as it came. Ever since they'd all started showing up places with their partners, linking arms, sharing inside jokes, whispering to each other while I sat across the table pretending not to notice, I stopped trying. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly. It was the feeling of being the odd one out in a room I used to belong in. So I stayed home. And somehow, that loneliness felt less exhausting than sitting between couples and laughing at conversations that no longer included me.

The silence of the morning wrapped around me, and for the first time, I realized how painfully quiet a day could feel when there was no distraction to fill it.

I lay still for a few moments, letting the quiet of the room sink in, yet my mind refused to rest. It wandered, as it always did these days, to him. To us.

We had been together since middle school. Slowly, our childhood friendship had blossomed into something deeper, something I couldn't imagine my life without. High school had been a patchwork of laughter, long walks, shared secrets, and late-night chats that stretched into the early hours. We had known each other's quirks, fears, and dreams in a way only childhood friends could, and then, somewhere along the line, those threads had woven into love.

I remembered our first unofficial date, the nervous way he had offered me a candy bar from the corner shop, how my stomach had fluttered like a dozen butterflies at once. We had laughed at the memory countless times after, but it never lost its magic. Those moments had felt small then, yet now, in retrospect, they were everything.

Then came the day he left. His parents had sent him Europe for further studies, while I got admitted to the city's university. I still remembered the last morning together, the tight hug that neither of us wanted to end, the tears streaming freely down our faces, the frantic promises that distance wouldn't matter. And for three years, it hadn't. Calls, video chats, messages, we had kept our bond alive, bridging miles with our voices and words.

But six months ago, everything changed. The calls stopped first, brief messages replaced long conversations. Then the messages went unanswered. I still remembered our last conversation vividly , I had been telling him about a dark themed Books and Series I'd watched, laughing at some twisted plot twist, and he had listened intently, as always. He had made those familiar jokes, teased me gently, and then… nothing.

The silence had hit me harder than I expected. I tried to convince myself it was temporary, that life abroad must be overwhelming, that he was busy. But the months stretched on, empty and heavy, and each passing day felt like a thread snapping between us.

I had asked him months ago if he would come for my birthday this year. He said no. I understood, I knew his life was complicated. But at least, a simple message saying he was busy wouldn't have hurt. The absence of that tiny acknowledgment gnawed at me relentlessly.

Somehow, by the time morning settled in, the memory of last night had slipped to the back of my mind like a dream fading after waking. The uneasiness, the barking, the flickering lights, even Preeti's messages, it all felt distant, almost unreal, as if it belonged to someone else's life. I went through my routine without thinking too much: washed my face, made tea, scrolled through my phone aimlessly. Not once did I glance at the door or the windows with suspicion.

It was strange how easily the mind erased the things it didn't want to carry. Maybe it was a kind of self-defense, convincing me that nothing was wrong so I could function like a normal person. I caught myself thinking I had exaggerated everything, that the tension in my chest last night was just stress wearing a different mask. I told myself I was just being dramatic, just tired, just paranoid.

Maybe there had been no one at the door. Maybe the flickering lights were just old wiring. Maybe Jojo was barking at a stray cat or a passing car I didn't hear. Maybe Preeti mistook a shadow for a figure. I stacked up the maybes like excuses and pressed them down on top of the fear until it stopped moving.

By mid-morning, I almost believed it never happened at all. And that was easier, pretending last night was just noise in my head, than admitting that something about it still tugged at the edges of my thoughts, waiting to be remembered.

As I moved through the day, the weight of someone's absence pressed into everything. Every notification on my phone became a fleeting hope, only to crumble when it wasn't him. Every call from a friend, every email, every sound from the outside world carried with it the ghost of expectation. Maybe it's him… maybe it's finally him. And always, disappointment.

I found solace in Jojo, curled up at my feet or nudging my hand when my thoughts grew too heavy. He was the only presence that grounded me. "I know," I whispered softly, scratching behind his ears. "I miss him too." He leaned into my touch, and the warmth of that small, living thing was almost painful in its contrast to the emptiness I felt.

The afternoon dragged on. I buried myself in assignments, scrolling endlessly through notes, typing and erasing, trying to convince myself I was productive. Yet my mind wandered constantly, drifting to memories I couldn't quite shake. I remembered the time we had stayed up all night, sharing our dreams for the future. How he had traced patterns on my palm and promised me, jokingly, that I'd never get away from him. How his laughter had filled the room, a sound so familiar it felt like home.

I smiled faintly at the memory, but the smile was hollow. Those moments felt like relics from a past life, unreachable and untouchable now. The silence he had left behind was louder than any argument or disagreement we had ever had. It was a void I couldn't bridge, no matter how hard I tried.

Even Jojo seemed to sense the heaviness in the room. He lay still for a while, eyes half-closed, before nudging my hand with his nose, demanding attention. I laughed softly, the sound foreign to my own ears. "Alright, alright," I murmured, leaning down to press my forehead against his soft fur. "We'll get through this, you and me."

The evening came slowly, painting the city in shades of gold and rose. I found myself by the window again, staring at the horizon, imagining him there somewhere, thinking of me. The thought was foolish, I knew, yet comforting. I wondered if he remembered the small details, the way I liked my coffee, the tiny habits I never noticed in myself until he pointed them out. If he remembered them, did he think of me as often as I thought of him?

My phone buzzed faintly on the table beside me. Heart quickening, I reached for it, hoping beyond hope. But it was only a reminder for an assignment due tomorrow. Even the smallest disappointment sank into me like a stone in water, rippling outward, leaving echoes of longing in its wake.

Night fell, and the city lights flickered to life. I curled up on the couch, Jojo at my side, the room quiet except for the soft hum of my thoughts.

The sudden chime of the doorbell cut through the quiet like a blade, and for a moment I didn't move at all. My eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, 11:45 p.m. The late hour alone was enough to send a ripple of unease through me. Preeti never visited at this time. No one did. The neighborhood was usually silent by ten, and I couldn't think of a single person who would show up unannounced this close to midnight.

I stayed still for a few seconds, listening. No knock followed. No second ring. Just silence. My thoughts raced as I debated whether to ignore it or check, but curiosity and caution tangled together until my legs moved on their own. I stepped toward the door slowly, placing each foot carefully as though the sound of my movement might alert whoever was on the other side. My breath felt oddly loud in my ears.

When I finally reached the door, I leaned forward and looked through the peephole, but all I saw was black. Not darkness from the empty street, but pitch black, like something was pressed directly against the lens, blocking the view entirely. My stomach tightened. That wasn't just strange, it was deliberate. Someone had to be standing close enough to cover it. I didn't hear footsteps. I didn't hear breathing. But the feeling of being watched slid over me again like cold water.

I closed my eyes for a second to steady my heartbeat before unlocking the chain and turning the knob just a little. I didn't swing the door open fully, just enough to peer through the gap, ready to slam it shut if I saw even the smallest hint of danger.

But the street was empty.

No figure, no footsteps retreating, no lingering presence. Not even a shadow stretching across the street. The quiet outside the door felt wrong, too still, like even the night was pretending not to exist. For a moment I just stood there, hand still on the knob, trying to understand how someone could've rung the bell and vanished in the span of seconds.

Then I saw them.

Right in front of the door, placed neatly on the doormat, were a flower bouquet and two stacked pizza boxes.

I frowned, instinctively stepping back before leaning forward again with hesitation. The bouquet was wrapped in soft paper, a pale color I couldn't make out fully under the dim light. The pizzas were closed, unmarked, no logo, no receipt taped to the top. There was no card tucked into the flowers, no note, no ribbon, nothing to explain why they were here or who had left them.

I glanced up and down the street again, my pulse thudding as if someone might appear if I just stared long enough. But nothing moved. No doors opened. No shadow moved. No footsteps echoed on the empty street. The entire neighborhood was silent, almost unnaturally so.

After a moment of uncertainty, I bent down and picked everything up, the weight of the boxes warm against my arm and the faint scent of the flowers brushing against my nose. My hesitation lingered, but standing there any longer felt worse than moving. I shut the door behind me, locked it twice, and took the bouquet and pizzas to the table.

I set them down and just stared at them, trying to make sense of it. Maybe someone got the wrong apartment. Maybe a friend sent something and forgot to mention it. Maybe, just maybe, it was from him. The thought flickered through my mind before I could stop it, carrying both hope and dread.

Before jumping to conclusions, I grabbed my phone and unlocked it, scrolling straight to my chat with Preeti. If anyone would randomly leave food or something thoughtful at my door, it'd be her. She'd done it before with homemade dishes when I skipped meals during exams. Maybe she ordered something tonight and it was delivered to the wrong place.

I typed quickly.

"Hey, are you not home?"

I watched the screen for a while, expecting her typing bubble to appear. It didn't. I put the phone down and tried not to stare at the flowers again, but the silence made the seconds heavier. A few minutes passed before the screen finally lit up with her reply.

"Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I left for India this morning. My grandmother is sick. I was in a hurry and left without letting you know. I will be back in a month or two." – Preeti

Her message settled in strangely. The timing. The quiet departure. The fact that she hadn't been home at all today, and definitely not tonight.

Which meant the flowers and pizza weren't from her.

Which meant… someone else had been here.

And they knew exactly where to leave them.

The silence in the room grew heavier. And I wasn't sure I wanted to touch the bouquet again.

I suddenly remembered the darkness from the peephole earlier. The memory hit me like a jolt of cold water, and before I even realized what I was doing, my feet were already moving. I walked quickly but carefully toward the door, my palms slick with sweat despite the cool air in the apartment. My heart thudded against my ribs as I reached for the peephole again, pressing my eye to the glass.

It was still black.

Completely black.

The kind of blackness that felt solid, like staring into an abyss with no end. I stepped back instinctively, a chill crawling up my arms. This wasn't just the dim street light. Someone was there. Someone had to be there, covering it, blocking it, watching me from the other side.

Without giving myself time to think, I unlocked the door with a rush of adrenaline, twisting the knob so fast it banged lightly against the wall. I yanked it open, prepared to catch whoever was standing there. But once again, the street was empty.

Not quiet, silent.

No footsteps fading away. No door slamming shut in the distance. Nothing.

The emptiness felt almost mocking now, like the neighborhood itself was holding its breath with me. My eyes darted up and down the street, searching for the slightest movement, an arm pulling back, a head ducking away, even a shadow retreating. There was nothing. My stomach turned as an icy realization sank deeper, this wasn't random. Someone was playing with me.

I frowned and, despite the instinct screaming at me to shut the door, leaned out just enough to look at the peephole from the outside. My breath stopped in my throat the moment I saw it.

A piece of black tape.

Not just any tape, thick, opaque, cut into a perfect square. It covered the peephole completely, as if someone had measured it beforehand, making sure not a sliver of glass was exposed. My pulse spiked. This wasn't an accident. This wasn't wind or coincidence. Someone had walked up to my door, rung the bell, and deliberately sealed my view.

I reached out with trembling fingers and peeled at the edge of the tape. It came away easily, leaving no sticky residue, like it had been placed carefully just for me to find. That thought alone made my skin crawl.

I stared at the small square of tape in my hand for a long moment, my mind spinning with possibilities. Who would do this? Why? The bouquet, the pizzas, the silence outside, and now this, it all felt like a pattern, a sequence of deliberate moves meant to make me uneasy. And it was working.

With my heart still pounding, I stepped back inside, locking the door again and leaning against it. For the first time that night, the walls of my apartment felt like they were closing in, not protecting me. Someone had been right there on the other side. Someone had touched my door. Someone knew exactly what they were doing.

To be continued

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