| SCARLETT | 

I wake up to a rather empty room, but it doesn’t feel empty. It never feels empty anymore. In fact, I almost wish it did. The silence is overwhelming—more oppressive than any noise could ever exist . It’s a silence that weighs on me, clinging to the surrounding air like a thick fog. The room looks the same as it always has the white-colored walls, the soft bed with its cotton sheets, the faded photographs I never got around to replace , the delicate curtains that flutter ever so slightly when the air shifts around  And yet, there’s a palpable change. Something has shifted, some invisible barrier has descended, and the room feels... off. The walls seem to close in around me, pressing in from all sides, and for the first time, I feel like I’m drowning in the very space that used to offer me my  refuge . It’s a strange feeling, to wake up in your own bed and feel more like a prisoner than someone at peace. The morning light spills into the room, casting soft, golden rays that should have comforted me, but instead, they only illuminate the heaviness that weighs down on my chest. I reach for the sheets, but my limbs feel too heavy, like the weight of the air has seeped into my very bones. My breath is cold and shallow, caught somewhere between panic and exhaustion. It's as if I’ve been holding my breath for too long, afraid to exhale, to fully face the room, the reality that has quietly taken root in the corners of my life . I pull the blankets tighter around me, hoping that if I cover myself in the warmth, I can somehow avoid the sensation that there is someone else in the room with me. But there’s no one. The room is still empty. Still silent. But that’s the problem—it feels like it’s not empty . Every morning now starts the same. I wake up, my heart racing before I even open my eyes. The moment my consciousness returns to me, I feel it—the pressure, the weight lowering me down . The feeling of being watched, even though no one is here. It’s as if I’m being suffocated by the very space I inhabit. My eyes flicker open, searching the familiar corners of the room, instinctively scanning for anything unusual, anything out of place. But everything is as it should be. Everything is… fine.

Except it’s not. It hasn’t been for days.

The air feels thick—heavy with something that isn’t quite right. It clings to my skin, crawling beneath my clothes, sinking into my lungs. I try to breathe deeply, to push past the tightness in my chest, but it’s like trying to suck air through a straw that's too small. I gasp, the sharp intake of breath hurting my throat, and I close my eyes again, willing the sensation to pass. A tear fell from my eye bringing me only a few seconds of relief before returning into just a drop of water i’d say . It’s almost like the walls are alive—growing, pulsating, pressing in on me, closing in tighter, inch by inch. I can’t quite explain it. It’s as though the room itself is aware of me, aware of my every movement, my every thought. There’s something unnatural about it. Something that makes me want to curl up and hide, to shrink away from the suffocating presence that isn’t there, and yet, is. I roll over and push myself up into a sitting position, my feet brushing the cold wood of the floor. The cold feels like a shock to my nervous system, sharp against my sweaty skin. I glance around the room again, instinctively checking for any trace of the feelings that  I can’t escape. The empty chair by the desk, the slivers of sunlight cutting through the curtains . Everything is completely still. But none of it comforts me. The stillness is louder than any noise, and the quietness echoes in my mind, amplifying the sense of unease that has settled like dust in the back of my throat. It’s like the world outside my apartment continues on, oblivious, while inside these four walls, a storm is brewing. The world outside, with all its noise, its chaos, its predictability—none of it touches me. I’m trapped in this little pocket of terror, cut off from everything. Everyone. The sound of traffic outside, the usual morning chatter of people in the street—it’s all muffled, distant, like I’m submerged underwater. The apartment has become an island of quiet horror, and the rest of the world is a dream, just beyond my reach. They don't know. They don't feel what I feel. They don't know what it's like to be so afraid of something you can't even name. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this isn’t just the aftereffect of a bad dream or some overactive imagination. The feeling of being watched—it’s not paranoia. It’s real. The thought has been sitting on the back of my mind for days now, festering, growing . The feeling that someone was there, in the shadows of my room, watching me. The way I can’t seem to shake the sensation, even in broad daylight. I thought it was just a moment of irrational fear, something my mind had cooked up, but now it’s something else. It’s a gnawing, terrifying certainty. 

I’m not alone.

I feel the impulse to rush to the door, to yank it open, to see if someone is standing just beyond the threshold. But I don’t. Because deep down, I know I’m safe—for now. Whoever is doing this to me , whoever has been following me, watching me, is not in the hallway. Not yet. And yet, I feel the pull of something darker, something that’s reaching toward me from the other side of that door. I wish I could ignore it. Pretend it’s all just my nerves playing tricks on me. But I can’t. I close my eyes again, trying to shake the image out of my mind. I can’t let this take hold of me. I can’t let fear control me. But I also know that I can’t let this feeling go, either. This—this presence, this creeping terror—is a part of me now. I have to face it, confront it, or it will consume me. Completely . 

But how? How do you fight something you can’t even name? How do you protect yourself from a threat you don’t fully understand? I don’t have the answers, and the uncertainty of it all weighs on me more than I care to admit. 

I get up from the bed, my legs unsteady as I make my way to the bathroom. The coolness of the tile under my feet feels grounding, and I lean against the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me is familiar and yet... different. There’s a certain tension in her eyes now, something that wasn’t there before. Something new. I can see the faint traces of fear creeping up around the edges of her face. Her eyes are a little more guarded. Her mouth, a little tighter. She doesn’t smile as easily anymore. 

The woman in the mirror is a stranger to me, and yet, she is me. 

I splash cold water on my face, letting it drip  down, hoping it will clear my head. But when I look back up at my reflection, I’m still the same. I’m still here. 

And I’m still afraid. 

The feeling is still there, lurking beneath my skin, in the corners of my vision. The storm inside is only getting stronger. And soon, I won’t be able to ignore it any longer. Soon, something will happen. Something I can’t control. Something I won’t be able to outrun. I don’t know how I know this, but I feel it. In the pit of my stomach. The storm is coming. And I don’t know how to stop it. 

I inhale deeply, but the air tastes stale, and I wonder when it stopped feeling fresh. Maybe it’s me. Maybe my mind is clouding everything. I roll over, my hand grazing the soft cotton sheets, and I sit up slowly, glancing around the room. It’s still early. The pale light from the morning sun seeps in through the curtains, casting everything in a muted glow. 

I wish I could pretend like everything’s fine, but I can't.

I know what I felt last night. The chill that ran down my spine, the feeling of eyes on me even when I couldn’t see anyone. It was more than paranoia. It was real. 

The phone buzzes on the nightstand, snapping me from my spiraling thoughts. I grab it quickly, desperate for any distraction. It’s a text from Camilia.

“How are you feeling this morning? Should I come by later?” 

I stare at the message for a long moment, the words spinning in my mind. Should I? Should I admit just how terrified I am? The truth is, I’m not sure what I want. I need help, but I don’t know how to ask for it—how to explain the creeping sense of dread that’s overtaken me. After a long pause, I type back, my fingers trembling as I do so.

“I’m okay. I won’t be coming to the office today . Just tired. I’ll be fine.” 

The lie comes easily. It always does.

I set the phone down and slide out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. The chill seems to seep into my skin, mirroring the cold in my chest. I’ve been feeling this way for days now—disconnected, like the world outside me is an illusion. My own body feels foreign, a shell I’m simply inhabiting for the time being.

I walk into the bathroom and splash my face with cold water, watching droplets race down the porcelain sink. The mirror reflects my tired face back at me—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, the remnants of a restless night. 

Was it just a bad dream? Could it all be in my head? .No. I know it isn’t.

My mind flashes to last night. I had stayed up late, reading through work emails, trying to distract myself from the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. And then, just as I was about to go to sleep, I had felt it—a presence in the room. The room was dark, the only light coming from the moonlight . My eyes flickered to the corner, instinctively searching for something—or someone. But there was nothing. At least, nothing that I could see. And yet, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. 

I wasn’t imagining it. 

There was something—or someone—there. And I knew it. I felt it in the air. I had told myself it was nothing, that I was just being paranoid, that I was tired from work and all the late nights. But the unease wouldn’t go away. It clung to me, suffocating in its quiet intensity. I shake my head, trying to clear the lingering thoughts. I need to focus. I need to figure out what to do next. The silence of the room feels oppressive. My phone buzzes again, this time a call. I glance at the screen—it’s from Camilia. 

I answer quickly, almost too quickly.

“Scarlett?” she says, her voice filled with concern, but it’s not just concern. I can hear the edge of worry there too. “Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t answer my last text, and I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. You’ve been acting strange lately. What’s going on?”

I lean against the sink, my fingers gripping the edge firmly almost too firmly for support. Her voice, her words—they only remind me of what I’m trying to avoid: the truth. The truth that’s been gnawing at me . 

“I’m fine,” I say, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “I just… I didn’t sleep well last night. That’s all.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. I can hear her breathing, like she’s not sure whether to push further or leave me to it. But I know her too well. Camilia doesn’t give up easily.

“Scarlett…” she begins, and I can hear the caution and worry in her voice. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, but I can’t keep watching you shut down. You’re not yourself lately. Something’s going on, and I know it’s more than just a bad night’s sleep. I’ve seen you after rough work days. This is different.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I clench my jaw, swallowing back the lump in my throat. 

She’s right. It is different. But I can’t tell her yet. Not yet. I can’t explain to her the fear that’s been eating me alive, the fear that’s so real and raw it feels like it’s suffocating me. She’s my assistant—my friend, yes—but what could she possibly do? What could anyone do if I tell them the truth? If I tell them how someone has been watching me, how they’ve been in my life, in my space, leaving reminders that they’re always there?

“I just need some time, Camilia. I’m… I’m not ready yet,” I say, my voice breaking despite my best effort to stay composed. “But thank you for caring. I just… I can’t talk about it right now.”

I hear her sigh, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, but it’s enough for me to know that she’s not convinced. 

“I’ll be here when you’re ready,” she says, her voice gentle, almost motherly. “But Scarlett, please be careful. I’m serious. This isn’t just a passing phase. Whatever’s going on, I’m here for you. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I know. Thank you.”

We end the call, and I stand there for a long moment, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. What the heck is happening to me?

I wish I could say I’ve never been afraid of anything. But that would be a lie. I’ve been afraid of plenty of things in my life—failure, rejection, the idea of being alone forever—but this? This is different. This fear wraps itself around my chest like a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter until I feel like I can’t breathe.

Who is doing this to me? Who is watching me from the shadows?

I don’t know. But I will find out.

And that thought is both a comfort and a curse. 

As I drifted my gaze my eyes fell upon my nightstand something was missing. Definitely missing. But what was it ? Um….. . Wait yeah ! my mug where is it ? Like fr where is it ? 

I rush over to the nightstand to take a more detailed view I see a small note there . My hands become all sweaty and my body trembling with fear of what’s going to come next . My heart pounding as if it will break itself free . I open the note and read it in one go and adrenaline fills me up . 

I HAVE AN OBSESSED STALKER

Oh my dear Scarlett , 

You look so pretty and so naive while you’re extremely beautiful voice drowns me in the ocean of honey . Darling you’re mine . And this is not a request but an order . I am your man and you are my everything . My soul . My desire. My dark energy. My source of blood . Freaking Everything.

Yours affectionately,

Obsessed stalker