The Letter I Never Wrote

THE LETTER I NEVER WROTE - A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER NOVEL I found the letter on a Tuesday. It was not hidden very well, just under my old psychology books in my own drawer, as if someone wanted me to find it. Or as if I had hidden it myself and forgotten. The paper was old, yellow at the edges, thin like the paper my grandmother used to use. The ink was slightly faded, black ink that had turned a little brown with time. "Don't trust him. Don't go to the old house. If you are reading this, you already forgot everything. Burn this letter right after reading. - A" I read it three times. My hands were shaking so badly I had to sit down on the floor. The handwriting was mine. I would know my own handwriting anywhere. In school, my teachers always said my writing was messy but very unique. The way I make my capital D with a big loop, the way my small o is never fully closed, the way my t is always crossed too high. It was exactly mine. No one could fake it that perfectly. No one studies handwriting that deeply. But I have zero memory of ever writing this. Not even a little. I don't have any old house. My family house is new. I have never been to any old house. And I have never in my life signed just as "A". My name is Alina. Alina Khan. I always sign as Alina. Always. My heart was beating so fast it hurt. I felt cold even though it was hot outside. Just then, I heard the main door click. Zayn. Zayn entered with two grocery bags. Milk, bread, apples, eggs. His Tuesday routine. He always goes to the same store, buys the same things, comes at the same time. 9:30 AM. He is a man of perfect routine. That is what I loved about him. He is calm, stable, perfect. He smiled when he saw me sitting on the floor. That perfect, calm, beautiful smile that made me agree to move in with him one year ago, even though my mother said it was too fast. "What are you doing on the floor, love?" he asked, placing the bags on the kitchen counter. Then his eyes went to my hand. To the yellow paper. "What is that?" Panic, pure panic, shot through my body. I crumpled the paper fast and hid it behind my back. My palms were sweating. "Nothing! Nothing, just... just an old electricity bill. From the drawer. I was cleaning." He did not move. He just stared. For maybe five seconds, which felt like five minutes. His smile was still there, but his eyes were not smiling. His eyes were studying me. It was like he was trying to read my mind. "Alina, you have been acting very strange since morning," he said softly. He walked closer. His shoes made no sound. "Did you sleep at all last night? You were tossing and turning, you were talking in your sleep." "I'm fine. Really, Zayn, I'm fine." He reached out, so gently, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were ice cold. I flinched. He noticed. He looked down at my hand. The corner of the yellow paper was still peeking out from behind my back. I saw his eyes flicker to it. My blood froze. My breath stopped. But he said nothing. He just turned away, went to the kitchen, and started unpacking the groceries, humming a low song. Milk in the fridge, bread on the counter, apples washed. Too normal. Everything was too normal, too perfect, like a movie set. I ran. I ran to my bedroom and locked the door. I locked it twice. I sat with my back against the door, breathing hard. I opened the letter again with shaking hands. I turned it over. On the back side, there was something I did not see before because the room light was dim. Faint pencil marks. Someone had written something with a pencil, pressed hard, then erased it badly. I could still see the impression. I held it up to the window, to the sunlight. It was an address. 117, Old Mill House, North Street. My hands started shaking violently. I have lived in Lahore for three years. I know every street near my university, near my old hostel, near this apartment. I have never, ever heard of North Street. There is no North Street in this area. Why would I write an address I have never heard of? And why would I write it in pencil and erase it? And who is "A"? Is it Alina? Is it someone else? Is someone warning me about Alina? I took my phone. My fingers kept slipping because of sweat. I typed the address. I searched on Google. No result. Zero. I searched on Apple Maps. It showed an empty grey field near the old factory area, near Ravi Road. The old textile mill. A place that was closed ten years ago after a big fire. Everyone in Lahore knows that story. The fire was big, two workers died, the owners ran away. The building is still there, abandoned, black, scary. No one goes there. Why would I write that address? I looked at myself in the mirror on my cupboard. I looked pale. Like I had not slept in days. My eyes were red, with dark circles. My hair was messy. Then a memory, a flash, hit me so hard my stomach dropped. Last Tuesday. Exactly one week ago. I woke up in the morning. My shoes were by the main door. They were covered in fresh mud. Wet mud. My pajama bottoms were damp, up to my knees, muddy. My feet were dirty. Zayn was sitting in the living room, watching morning news, calm. He said, very calmly, like it was normal, "Oh, you went for a walk in the park again. You were sleepwalking. I brought you back at 3 AM. You were outside in the rain." But it was raining heavily that Tuesday night. Thunderstorm, heavy rain, wind. I HATE rain. I have a phobia of thunder. I never, ever go out in rain. Not even with an umbrella. And I have never sleepwalked in my entire life. Not once as a child. My mother told me many times, Alina never even talks in sleep. Or did I? Or have I started now? What if I am sick? What if I am losing my mind? What if I really did write this letter to myself as a warning, and then I forgot? What if I have some memory illness? I folded the letter, small, very small, into a tiny square, and hid it inside my pink diary. The one with a small golden lock. The diary I have kept since I was sixteen. Zayn knows about it. He promised, he swore, he would never touch it, never open it, because diaries are personal. I tried to be brave. I came out of the bedroom.