The Unexpected Warning
759 Words
Lena couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, the words floated in her head, putting themselves into her thoughts.
Sophie mustn’t read me.
By morning, the words felt less like a message and more like a violation—like something had crept into her life without permission and set down roots.
She couldn’t leave the diary on the desk. Not after that. She shoved it deep into her backpack, past her notebooks and tangled earbuds, all the way down. She zipped the bag with a final jerk with a motion sharp enough to sting her fingers.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Except it wasn’t.
All day, she carried the weight of it on her shoulders—literally. The bag felt heavier, dragging her down with every step, until she swore she could feel the leather against her spine through the canvas.
It’s just a book.
But the command had been direct. Personal. Like something had leaned close in the dark and whispered in her ear.
She hated the thought of Sophie seeing it now. Hated the thought of anyone seeing it.
By the time Lena ducked into the campus café, she was filled with unease. The place was crowded—students hunched over laptops, cups of coffee balanced beside open textbooks, baristas shouting orders over the low hum of conversation.
She told herself the noise would drown out her thoughts. That’s what she needed—normal chaos.
She clutched her iced coffee like it was an anchor, forcing herself into the tide of students.
But the feeling came anyway.
That crawling, skin-prickling sensation. The undeniable pressure of eyes on her back.
She tried to ignore it, tightening her grip on the plastic cup, weaving between tables. But when she spun too quickly toward the door, she collided with someone hard enough to send cold coffee splattering across her hoodie.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry—” she started, fumbling for napkins.
Then she looked up.
The words froze in her throat.
The guy was her age—maybe a little older. His jaw was sharp, his dark hair falling into his eyes. But it wasn’t his looks that stole her breath. It was the mark slashed across his face: a fresh scar cutting clean from temple to cheek, raw and recent.
His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and unblinking.
He didn’t acknowledge the spilled coffee and didn’t accept her apology.
His voice was low and urgent, meant only for her.
“You shouldn’t have touched it.”
Lena’s body went rigid.
“What?” she whispered, but he was already gone. He moved with the crowd like water, swallowed by the press of students, vanishing before her brain caught up with her mouth.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Touched what?
The diary. It had to be.
Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped her cup.
By the time she stumbled back to her dorm, she was extremely nervous. She slammed the door shut behind her and leaned against it, bag still slung on her shoulder, breathing like she’d run a mile.
She dragged the diary out. Threw it onto the desk.
It landed with a dull thud, as though mocking her.
For long minutes, she just stared at it, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t write. She didn’t dare.
But her silence didn’t matter.
The book responded anyway.
Ink bled across a fresh page, curling into elegant, deliberate lines.
Her stomach dropped as the warning took shape:
"Don’t trust the boy with the scar".
Her knees nearly gave out.
It knew.
It saw.
She clutched the edge of the desk, her nails digging into the wood.
By the time she forced herself to shove the diary back into her backpack, her entire body was trembling.
She zipped it closed, hard enough to sting her fingers again.
But as her hand brushed the side pocket, something unexpected met her touch.
Paper.
Folded.
Her breath stuttered. That pocket had been empty—she knew it had.
With trembling fingers, she pulled it free. A single folded slip, the edges crisp as if freshly torn.
She unfolded it.
Her blood went cold.
The handwriting was unmistakable. Elegant. Fluid. The same script that haunted the diary’s pages.
It contained only one sentence.
"He’s watching you".
The paper slipped from her hand and fluttered to the floor.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, so loud she thought the entire building could hear it.
She was no longer imagining it.
The diary wasn’t confined to the diary anymore.
- Writer
