Chapter 5: The Message
1956 Words
For a long, terrifying moment, Layla could not find her voice.
She sat completely frozen in the passenger seat, staring blankly at the photograph on her phone as though looking at it long enough would somehow make it less real. But it remained exactly as it was—grainy, distant, and deeply invasive. It was her and Zayd at the corner table. She was leaning over a cup of tea she had barely tasted, and he was sitting opposite her with that watchful expression. It had been taken from far enough away to avoid drawing their attention, but close enough to feel sickeningly intimate, and that was what made Layla’s stomach twist into painful knots.
Someone had not only seen her crying on the street tonight; they were actively tracking her movements through the city.
Zayd’s face remained hardened into a mask of pure anger. He kept his dark eyes fixed on the screen for another second, analyzing the background details, before handing the phone back to her carefully, as if the device itself had become dangerous to hold.
“Whoever sent this was close enough to watch your face,” he said, his voice clipped and tight. “And they were close enough to take that photo through the glass without either of us noticing.”
Layla looked down at the photograph again, and suddenly the memory of the quiet café felt entirely wrong. The sleepy woman by the window, the young men laughing behind the counter, every single face in that room rearranged itself in her mind into a suspicious question mark. She had thought the place felt safe because it was public, warm, and ordinary. Heartbreak had left her too exhausted to imagine real danger. Now, the illusion of safety was completely shattered.
“I want to go home,” she said suddenly, the words breaking out of her.
The sudden statement surprised even her, but the moment the words left her lips, she knew they were true. She didn’t want any more tea. She didn’t want to sit in a parked car pretending she could think her way out of a stalking nightmare. She desperately wanted the familiar, solid walls of her own bedroom, the comforting sound of her mother moving around the house, and the false security of her daily routine. Even if she couldn't tell her family a single detail of the truth, at least home would feel real.
Zayd studied her pale expression for a brief moment, seeing the genuine terror there, and nodded immediately.
“Okay,” he said.
There was no argument from him, no lecture about safety, and no insistence that she stay put and calm down first. Just that single, quiet word, spoken with enough steady assurance to make her chest ache unexpectedly. He restarted the engine, put the car in drive, and pulled back onto the rain-slicked road.
Layla sat with her phone turned completely face-down in her lap, unable to bear another look at the photograph, but she was far too frightened to put the device away entirely. Every slight vibration from the car's tires against the road made her heart leap, thinking the phone had buzzed again. Every pair of bright headlights that appeared in the rearview mirror made her wonder if the exact same person was still driving behind them in the dark. She hated the feeling. She hated the way fear had slipped under her skin so quickly, transforming her into someone who viewed everything with deep suspicion.
Beside her, Zayd drove with both hands firmly on the wheel, his expression unreadable as he watched the traffic.
After a long while, as they neared her general neighbourhood, he spoke up quietly. “You still don’t have to tell me exactly where you live, Layla. Just guide me to a street or a landmark close enough that you feel safe getting out of the car.”
Layla turned her head to look at his profile. The small gesture of respect for her boundaries shouldn't have mattered as much as it did, but tonight, it meant everything.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Zayd glanced over at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “For what?”
“For not making an already terrible night feel any worse.”
“I don’t think you needed any extra help with that anyway,” he said, a familiar touch of dry humour returning to his tone. “You’ve managed to have a remarkably productive disaster all on your own.”
A startled laugh escaped Layla’s lips before she could stop it.
It came far too easily this time, and that realization frightened her in an entirely different way. She had spent the entire evening crying over Farouk’s betrayal, discovering his secret engagement in the most humiliating way possible, yet here she was laughing in a car with a man she had met completely by accident. His presence had somehow become a strange sanctuary in the middle of a night she would rather completely erase. She didn’t know what to do with that feeling—whether to resent it as a distraction or cling to it for safety.
“I’m serious, though,” Zayd said, his tone shifting back to something protective. “When I drop you off, you go straight inside your house. And if that unknown number texts you again, do not reply under any circumstances.”
Layla nodded seriously. “I won’t.”
“In fact, block every single number you don’t recognize tonight,” he added.
That directive dragged another faint laugh out of her. “Yes, sir.”
Zayd’s mouth twitched, just barely, at her sarcasm.
They reached her residential area twenty minutes later. Layla guided him through the familiar, quiet streets with an increasing sense of relief, telling him where to turn without ever giving away her exact house number. By the time they finally came to a stop near the end of her street, the heavy rain had reduced to a very fine mist. The neighbourhood was dead silent, the houses completely dark except for a few amber porch lights glowing behind iron gates.
“This is perfectly fine,” Layla said, gathering her handbag and adjusting her damp headscarf.
Zayd frowned slightly, looking down the dark lane. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes. My gate is just down there.”
A long, heavy pause hung in the car.
Then, to her utter surprise, Zayd reached into the centre console, pulled out his own phone, and held the unlocked screen toward her. “Put your number in.”
For a second, Layla only stared at the device.
The offer was completely practical and sensible. If someone had truly followed her tonight, if the anonymous messages were a serious threat, then it made logical sense for at least one other person to know she had made it inside safely. But it felt heavier than that. He wasn't telling her to text a friend or her mother. He was saying: ‘Text me’.
Zayd must have noticed her sudden hesitation, because his tone shifted, becoming lighter to break the tension. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to send a safety update to Farouk, which I strongly advise against.”
“Absolutely not,” she said instantly.
“Good. Then put your number in.”
Layla took the phone from his hand, trying very hard not to be overly aware of the proximity or the fact that she was typing her personal details into a stranger’s contacts at nearly midnight. It felt absurd and reckless, yet as she handed the device back to him, none of those words felt entirely wrong.
Zayd glanced down at the screen, a small smile appearing. “You saved your contact name as 'Layla (The Girl You Almost Ran Over)'?”
“You nearly destroyed my peace of mind tonight. I’m fully allowed.” Layla shook her head, but she was smiling now, faintly and helplessly.
The smile faded completely the moment she reached for the door handle.
She realized, with an embarrassing wave of vulnerability, that she did not actually want to leave the car. The realization caught her completely off guard. It wasn't that she wanted to stay with him forever or turn the night into something romantic; it was simply that outside this warm vehicle waited the suffocating silence of her room, the full weight of her heartbreak, and the terrifying possibility of more threats. Inside the car, for however brief a time, she hadn't been alone with the darkness.
Zayd seemed to notice the slight hesitation in her posture, his eyes softening. But she forced herself to press down on the handle.
“Goodnight, Zayd,” she said softly.
“Goodnight, Layla.”
She stepped out into the cool night air and shut the heavy door behind her, then turned and walked quickly toward the iron gate at the end of the street without looking back. The fine mist clung to her clothes, and her sandals were still uncomfortably damp, but she barely felt any of it now. Her mind was far too full—of Farouk, of the terrifying photograph, of the damp notebook, and of Zayd saying her name as if he had already memorized the sound of it.
By the time she slipped through the small pedestrian gate and into her family's compound, her phone was already clutched firmly in her hand. She sent the update before she could overthink it.
Layla: ‘I’m home’.
The text reply came almost instantly, flashing on her screen.
Zayd: ‘Good. Make sure you lock your door’.
Layla stared at the words for a second longer than necessary, a small sense of warmth blooming in her chest, then slipped the phone into her pocket and entered the house as quietly as humanly possible. The main sitting room was completely dark. The hallway light had been left on for her. Somewhere deeper in the house, she could hear the faint, steady hum of the neighbourhood generator and the soft, occasional rattle of dishes settling in the kitchen sink. Everything looked entirely normal.
It looked entirely too normal.
She crept up the stairs to her bedroom, shut the door firmly behind her, turned the lock, and finally let herself take a deep, full breath. The ordeal was over for the night.
Then she turned on the overhead light.
And froze completely, the air instantly turning to ice in her lungs.
A small, brown paper envelope sat neatly right in the middle of her made bed.
Layla stared at it, every single muscle in her body going completely rigid. She had personally made her bed that morning before leaving the house; she was absolutely certain of it. Her room had been clean, empty, and securely locked when she left for the café. Now, an unknown envelope rested on her duvet like it completely belonged there.
Slowly, her feet dragging like lead, Layla crossed the floor. Her hands were shaking violently by the time her fingers touched the paper and picked it up.
On the front of the envelope, written in dark, chillingly familiar handwriting, were four words that made the remaining blood drain entirely from her face:
‘For my future wife’.
Layla stopped breathing entirely. Because she recognized that handwriting perfectly. And it did not belong to Farouk.
- Writer
