He loves Me He Kills Me

The sky bled shades of orange and grey as the sun dipped behind the smoggy skyline. Alizeh Rehman dipped her paintbrush into crimson red, dragging it across the canvas like she was trying to rip her pain open and let it spill. The studio on her rooftop had no walls, just glass and wind — the perfect prison for a woman who had learned to express only in silence. She painted with urgency tonight. Maybe it was the thunder rumbling low in the clouds. Maybe it was the voice in her head whispering, He’s here. For weeks, she had felt something was off — shadows that moved where they shouldn’t, the creak of stairs she hadn’t stepped on, and the feeling of being watched. But every time she looked, there was nothing but her reflection in the glass. Her brush froze mid-stroke. A soft knock. Not on the door. On the window. She turned slowly, heart crawling up her throat. Nothing. The wind, perhaps. Or madness — something she had inherited after watching her parents burn inside their home at sixteen, their screams locked behind the fire. Her therapist called it “trauma-induced sensitivity.” Alizeh called it reality. She wiped her hands and stepped back from the canvas. Her painting looked like a war — blood, tears, and one black silhouette in the corner. A man with no face. She didn’t remember painting him. The knock came again. This time, it was on the door. She opened it cautiously. A delivery guy stood with a plain white box. “No name?” she asked. “Nope. Said it was urgent,” the boy replied, looking more nervous than she felt. “Weird thing to send someone this late though.” He left before she could ask more. Alizeh closed the door and unwrapped the package. Inside was a single long-stemmed red rose. She picked it up — and her fingers trembled. There was blood on the petals. Fresh. And beneath it… a note. “You paint what you fear. But you’ve never feared me — not yet.” Her stomach twisted. The handwriting was careful, masculine. Elegant even. Her name wasn’t on it. But it was for her. She rushed to lock all the doors and windows. Then she took the rose, placed it in the sink, and ran cold water over it. The red streaks in the sink looked too much like what she had just painted. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. ⸻ The next morning, the city woke up to news of a murder. “A man was found dead near Gulberg Road. Stabbed six times. A rose found near the body. Police suspect a serial pattern—” Alizeh turned the TV off. She knew the pattern. She had just held it in her hands. ⸻ That evening, she went to an art gallery where her latest pieces were being displayed. She didn’t want to go, but her mentor insisted. Crowds made her uneasy, but painting made her vulnerable — and people liked to look when you were bare. She stood near her painting titled “What Fire Left Behind.” Then, she felt it. Someone was watching her. She turned — and her eyes locked with the man across the room. Tall. Dark grey eyes. Wearing black. A presence so cold, it burned. He walked toward her with calm confidence, his eyes never leaving hers. “You painted this?” he asked, voice low and even. She nodded slowly. “Yes.” He studied the strokes, then said, “You see things others don’t. You hide them in red.” Alizeh felt her throat tighten. “Do I know you?” He gave a small smile. “Not yet. But you will.” ⸻ When she got home that night, her painting was still wet — even though it had dried hours ago. And the silhouette of the faceless man? It now had eyes. Cold, grey eyes. Just like his.