The Ex Who Never Left

Always Mine

Elena stared at the note for what felt like an eternity. The handwriting was his—there was no denying it. The bold strokes, the curve of the y, the way the ink dug in where he pressed too hard, as if love and violence had always fought for space even in his script. She should have thrown it away, burned it, torn it into pieces. Instead, she sat on the edge of her bed, holding the folded slip of paper like a relic she didn’t dare destroy. You belong to me. Always. Her chest tightened. The words felt like chains tightening around her lungs. By the time she dragged herself into the living room, Adrian was already waiting for her. He’d let himself in again, gentle as always, never imposing yet somehow filling her apartment with quiet strength.

He sat at the table with his laptop half-open, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. When he looked up, she saw concern flash in his eyes before he masked it with his usual warmth. “You look pale,” he said softly, closing the laptop. “Bad day?” Elena wanted to lie. To brush it off as exhaustion, stress, anything. But the words burned in her hand, in her veins, in her mind. She dropped the note onto the table between them like a confession.

Adrian frowned, picking it up. His brows furrowed as he read it once, then again, then looked back at her with a tight jaw.

“Elena…” His voice was low, controlled. “Who gave you this?” “It was on my bed.” She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. “When I came home. I locked the door. I always lock the door.”

Silence stretched between them. The note trembled slightly in his hand before he set it down. “Maybe it’s a prank.” Her laugh was hollow. “Who would do something like this? Who would know—” She cut herself short. The words caught in her throat.

Adrian’s gaze sharpened. “Know what?”

Elena turned away, walking to the window. The city lights glittered below, normal life carrying on while hers unraveled. She wanted to tell him everything, every scar Damian had carved into her life, every night she’d lain awake listening for footsteps that never came. But even saying Damian’s name out loud felt like summoning him. “He’s gone,” she whispered instead, more to herself than to Adrian. “He’s supposed to be gone.” Adrian stood and came closer, his presence steady, grounding. “You’re safe now,” he said, his hand hesitating before brushing her arm. His touch was warm, but she felt her skin prickle as if someone else’s hands lingered in memory.

Elena turned, meeting his eyes. There was something there—tenderness, yes, but also a flicker of doubt. As if he wanted to believe her but wasn’t sure if belief was safe. “I don’t think this is just a prank,” she said, her voice breaking. “It’s his handwriting, Adrian. I’d recognize it anywhere.” Adrian’s silence was answer enough. For the rest of the evening, he hovered protectively, cooking her tea, checking the locks twice, pretending to read while his eyes kept sliding back to her.

And yet, between his gestures of care, she felt the invisible wall building—the unspoken thought that maybe she was imagining things. Maybe grief had left cracks in her mind. When she excused herself to the bathroom, she lingered there too long, staring at her reflection. She traced the faint scar near her temple—the one Damian had kissed after their first fight, apologizing with tears that later dried into rage. Her reflection seemed sharper, colder, almost watching her with pity. She blinked, and it was gone. Back in the living room, Adrian was folding the note with careful precision. She froze in the doorway.

“Don’t throw it away,” she said quickly. He looked up. “You want to keep this?” “I need to,” she whispered. “It’s… proof.” Adrian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he slid the note into a small envelope and set it on the table. “Then we’ll keep it safe.” That night, Elena couldn’t sleep. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling while Adrian dozed on the couch. Every creak of the building made her tense, every gust of wind sounded like footsteps outside her door.

At 2:57 a.m., her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She froze, heart hammering. Slowly, she reached for it. The same number. Damian’s number. She unlocked the screen with shaking hands. One new message. You shouldn’t have shown him.

Her breath caught. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing down on her chest. She glanced toward the couch where Adrian slept, oblivious, his arm thrown over his eyes. Another buzz. Another message. You were always mine in the dark. Elena pressed the phone to her chest, her pulse thundering in her ears. She wanted to wake Adrian, to shove the phone in his face, to beg him to believe.

But part of her was terrified—terrified of what it meant if it was real, and equally terrified of what it meant if it wasn’t. Her body trembled. Her lips moved before she realized she was speaking, a whisper into the silence: “Damian…” And as if the name itself had power, the phone buzzed again. One final message. Sleep tight, my love. I’m closer than you think. Elena’s blood ran cold. She turned her head toward the window—and froze. In the glow of the streetlight below, a figure stood across the road. A man. Motionless. Watching. His hood shadowed his face, but his stance, his stillness, was too familiar. Her breath hitched, her body rigid with terror and longing all at once.

She blinked. And when her eyes opened again, the sidewalk was empty.