Obsessed With You

Episode Two: Th Between Days

The next morning came slower than usual. The soft gray of dawn filtered through my

curtains, burshing against my face like a whisper I didn't want to wake to. For a moment, I

stayed still, half convinced I'd dreamt everything---the shadow, the rain, the weight of eyes

I swore had followed me.

But the feeling didn't fade.

There was something in the silence, an awareness I couldn't quite shake off.

I forced myself out of bed and tried to focus on normal things---the steady hum of the

heater, the faint aroma of coffee grounds I'd left out the night before, the way my slippers

felt soft against the floorboards. Routine was supposed to make me feel safe, groudned.

But it only reminded me how fragile normalcy really was.

I made coffee, poured it into the chipped white mug I always used, a leaned against the

counter as I scorlled through my phone. Emails, Notifications. A message from my

roomate reminding me to pick up some millk. Nothing strange. Nothing dangerous.

So why did it feel like the air itself was watching me?

I sighed, grabbed my coat, and stepped outside. The city was waking up again---horns

blaring, voices echoing, the smell of rain still clinging to the pavement. Everything was as it

always was. Crowsed. Busy. Loud.

And yet... somehow lonely.

The bus ride to campus felt endless. I sat near the window, tracing droplets that slide down

the glass. People came and went, faces I didn't know, voices I barely heard. But sometimes,

I caught sight of a man standing near the street, or by a bench, his dark coat blending into

the crowd. He never looked directly at met, but there was something familiar about his stillness.

I shook it off. I had to.

By the time I reached my morning class, I had convinced mysellf I was imagining things.

Psychology was my first lecture of the day, and I tried to focus as Profressor Hall spoke

about human behavior---how the mind could invent threats when none existed.

My notebook filled with half-hearted notes:

Fear is an illusion that thrives on imagination.

How ironic.

After class, I walked to the library, craving quiet. The heavy scent of books and dust felt

like comfort. I found a table near the window and pulled out my laptop, ready to drown

myself in research. For a while, it worked. The steady rhythm of typing replaced the

thoughts trying to crawl back into my head.

Until I noticed something strange.

There was a small white envelope tucked under the corner of my laptop. I frowned. I

hadn't seen it when I sat down. No name. No handwritting. Just... there.

My heart gave a sharp, nervous flutter. Maybe someone had left it by mistake. Maybe.

I looked around. A few students whispered nearby, a librarian pushed a cart past the asile.

No one seemed to notice me.

I hesitated, then opened it.

Inside was a single peice of paper. Blank.

No words, no message---just the faint scent of something familiar. Cedarwood and smoke.

My breath caught, though I didn't know why.

I folded it back up and tucked it into my bag, pretending it didn't bother me. But all

afternoon, the feeling clung to me---the idea that something had been left for me,

intentionally.

That night, I placed the envelope on my nightstand. I stared at it as the city lights flickered outside,

painting faint reflections on my walls.

It was nothing, I told myself again and again.

But deep down, I knew better.

Because sometimes, obsession doesn't arrive loudly. It creeps in quietly---one glance, one

note, one small reminder than you are never truly alone.

At first, I tried to convince myself that everything was coincidence.

The envelope.

The shadows.

The scent that lingered long after the streets emptied.

But denial only works for so long.

I started to notice more---subtle things. The same black car parked near my building three

nights in a row. Footsteps behind me when I took the longer route home. A reflection in a

window that vaniished the moment I turned.

And yet, despite the unease that curled in my stomach, I didn't tell anyone.

Not my roomate. Not my friends. Not even the voice in my head whispering that I was

imagining it all.

It wasn't fear that silenced me.

It was something else. Something strange.

Curiosity.

Because deep down, some part of me wanted to know who he was.

Who would watch so quietly.

Who would care enough to memorize my routines.

I told myself it was ridiculous, that no one wanted to be followed, but late at night, when

the world was still and the city hummed beneath my window, I caught myself wondering----

if he was out there again, looking up.

Watching.

Protecting.

And the scariest thought of all wasn't that he might find me.

It was that I might want him to.

That thought haunted me more than the shadow itself. I didn't know why, but it lingered,

echoing through eery quiet hour of my day. It was wrong to feel this way---drawn to

something I didn't understand, someone I'd never truly seen. But the human mind has a

strange way of turning fear into fascination.

The next morning, I woke earlier than usual. The sky outside was pale and washed-out, the

kind of gray that blurred the edges of buildings. I made coffee, sat by the window, and

tried to read. My reflection looked back at me---tired eyes, messy hair, the faintest hint of

restlessness beneath my calm.

For a long while, nothing happened. The street below moved like it always did---cars

rushing past, people hurrying to work. I almost convinced myself that the night before had

been just another trick of my imagination.

Then my phone buzzed.

A new message. Unknown number.

Unknown: Be careful. The city isn't safe at night.

I stared at the screen, my chest tightening. It didn't sound like a threat. It read like a

warning. But that made it worse somehow--more intimate. Like he cared.

I deleted the message immediately. I told myself it was a parank, a wrong number, a

coincidence. But deep down, I knew it wasn't.

He was real.

And he was close.

That night, I couldn't sleep. The hum of the city felt louder than ever. I turned off my lamp,

crawled under the blanket, and listened. Every sound made me flinch---the creak of the

pipes, the faint wind against the glass, the drip of rain from the gutter.

Still, exhuastion won eventually. My eyelids grew heavy. The line between dream and wake

blurred until---

A noise.

Soft. Barely there.

From the hallway.

I sat up, holding my breath.

Nothing. Just silence.

I told myself not to move, not to check. Fear pulled through me, sharp and alive. But

curiosity... curiosity made me stand.

I padded the door, opened it just enough to peek into the dim hall. No one. No sound.

Only the quiet hum of the building and the faint light from the exit sign.

I closed the door again and turned to go back to bed---

---but something stopped me.

On the floor by my doorframe was a small white envelope.

No name. No handwriting. Just that same faint scent---cedar and smoke.

I picked it up slwoly, my pulse hammering. Inside was another blank card. Except this one

wasn't empty.

In the center, a single word was written in small, deliberate handwriting.

Sleep.

I dropped it. My breath hitched, my skin prickling with cold.

Whoever he was, he wasn't just watching me anymore.

He was here.