17. Questions With No Answers
745 Words
The air between them grew heavy, almost suffocating. Clara clutched her phone, the words of the message echoing in her head like a siren. He’s not who you think he is.
The stranger’s eyes locked on hers, sharp, unflinching. For a heartbeat, she swore he could read the fear straight from her veins.
“You got another message,” he said, his tone flat, more a statement than a question.
She hesitated. “You knew it was coming, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away, pacing the small stretch of her living room. His wet footsteps left faint marks on the wooden floor. The storm outside rattled against the windows, but the real storm was inside her walls now.
“Talk to me,” she demanded, her voice trembling more than she wanted it to. “Who are they? Why am I—why am I even part of this?”
He stopped mid-step, his shoulders tense, his back to her. For a moment, it looked as if he would finally explain, finally put the chaos into words she could hold onto.
But all he said was, “You shouldn’t have opened the door tonight.”
The words hit her like a slap. Anger flared hot in her chest. “You think I wanted this? That I asked for some stranger to show up in alleys, send me riddles, and—” she broke off, pressing her hands into her face, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I just want my life back.”
His silence was unbearable.
Finally, he turned. His face was unreadable, carved in shadows, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed something softer. Guilt.
“You can’t have it back,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”
Her chest tightened. “Why?”
Again, no answer. Just the storm, just the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Clara wanted to scream. Every question she asked came back with silence or riddles, leaving her dangling on the edge of trust and betrayal. Her instincts told her to push him out, slam the door, and pretend none of this had ever touched her life. But her heart… her heart whispered something different.
“You saved me,” she said finally, her voice breaking the fragile quiet. “Why? If I mean nothing, if I’m just some pawn in all this—why didn’t you let me go?”
For the first time, his expression cracked. He closed the space between them in two steps, standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold rain clinging to his clothes.
“Because I couldn’t.”
The confession was so raw, so unexpected, it left her breathless. She opened her mouth, but the words died on her lips when he reached for her again—not to touch her this time, but to take the phone from her hand.
The screen still glowed with the message. He’s not who you think he is.
He studied it, his jaw tightening. His thumb hovered over the screen as if resisting the urge to respond. Then, with a deliberate movement, he placed the phone back on the table and looked at her.
“You need to decide, Clara,” he said, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “Do you trust me?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “How can I? You won’t answer anything. You won’t tell me who you are, or who’s sending these messages, or why they keep coming after me.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“From what?”
The silence that followed was deafening. He clenched his jaw, and for the first time, Clara realized he wasn’t refusing her answers—he was carrying answers that terrified even him.
Before she could press further, the storm outside cracked with thunder, rattling the entire building. The lights flickered. Then, with a sudden snap, the room went dark.
Clara gasped, her hands groping in the blackness. “What’s happening?”
“Stay close to me,” he ordered. His voice was low, urgent.
She reached out blindly, her fingers brushing his arm. He caught her hand in his, firm and unyielding, grounding her in the suffocating dark.
And then, from the hallway outside her apartment, came the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.
Her breath caught in her throat. Whoever it was… they weren’t knocking this time.
They were coming in.
- Writer
