Trace is everything to me. From wallpaper to body pillow, he is everywhere in my life. Some call it obsession, but I call it love. My whole life I have never found a human being interesting—they all looked so boring. Social groups where no one actually likes each other, fake dating where the rich and beautiful qualify for everyone, and they say it's education but all that's required is good memory.
No one looks authentic—either too much makeup following their bias, or the "I don't care how I look but my lover should look perfect" attitude. It all makes me want to crawl back into my bed.
One day, I was researching celebrities. My publisher wanted me to write a novella—a short novel about a celebrity.
That's when I saw Trace for the first time. He was working with that actor, playing his younger brother. In an interview, Trace was giving honest answers. He looked like the kindest soul.
I thought I would be a fool if I trusted an interview, but out of curiosity I searched for more. Step by step, I got to know more about him. At first I denied being a fan—I've never been anyone's fan. But later, things got to a point where I couldn't deny he meant so much more. From patting my head when I'm sad to walking with me when I'm anxious, he's always there. Always.
It was a complete shock when I realized he lived next door. I couldn't sleep at all knowing he was right there—or that someone who looked like him was. The first day, he hid his face when I saw him. I'd heard rumors about multiple fans stalking him, invading his private space.
There were also rumors about him dating. One of them was Nero—her stage name—private and sketchy.
Trace looked drunk the night I saw them together, and I saw the kiss inside the elevator. Everything inside me dropped. I had never experienced heartbreak before, but I'm sure that's how it feels—like your heart is being crushed. I didn't do anything that night except cry. The next day I told myself maybe it was nothing. I wore glasses and a coat to get myself a cake. One-night stands are common, after all.
I wasn't ready for another heartbreak, but they joined me. She was holding his hand and he didn't mind. He looked hungover. They even came to the same cake shop. Her laughter was unbearable. She even fed him cake—the one he likes, chocolate hazelnut.
That was the last straw. I went back home, took down all his posters, deleted all his photos, even the unlisted fanfic book I loved writing so much. I hated him so much. I know he wasn't wrong, but it still hurts when the only person you love loves someone else. And the tears continued for a week.
I usually play songs nonstop, but in anger I threw the speaker and it broke. Just like my life—without Trace. That's when I started hearing the sounds: thuds and a woman's voice.
And I saw Nero the next morning—even without makeup she was beautiful. A perfect match for him. Beautiful, talented, equally popular. And I'm just a writer who hides her identity.
Things started getting weird between him and his neighbor. Others started complaining about noise, and I started seeing different girls each week. And his stares—as if he wanted to know if I heard anything or why I was the only one not complaining. It felt strange, all of it—the crying, the constant whispers.
Can I go back to the start? Forget everything I saw and just stay far away from him—my dearest love, Trace.
Cora ended her diary with these words. At the end, she typed I STILL LOVE YOU, but erased it as soon as she heard, "Help, please," from her balcony. Cora shut her laptop and went to the bedroom—the safest place where she could listen and be aware of danger.
She heard it again, the faint voice of a girl. This time it came through a small hole near the wall.
"Can you hear me?" Cora asked, speaking through the hole.
"Yes… I'm tied up. He's going to kill me." The girl's voice shook with fear, choking on her words.
"Do you want me to call the police?" Cora asked.
"If he gets to know… I'm scared, please… He might let me out." Her voice drifted away, drowned by construction noise.
"Who are you? Why are you in Trace's house?" Cora asked. There was no reply for a full minute.
Cora waited anxiously, walking back and forth.
"Hey… he's talking on the phone. I can escape. Will you help me from the main door and untie me?" the girl said. Anything was better than the silence after "he's going to kill me."
Cora agreed and waited outside the door, wondering if she was too early, or if it was a prank, or if everything was in her head.
Just when she was about to turn back, a girl rushed out with her mouth taped and hands tied behind her back. Their eyes met—she teared up—and in the next second, she was dragged back and the door slammed shut. It happened in an instant. Cora panicked and banged on the door, her hands shaking as she dialed emergency services.
She kept banging until the police arrived. No one else was allowed inside. They said there was nothing there. No one. They said the girl couldn't have jumped off the building without being seen on such a busy street, and the door had been guarded.
Everyone looked at Cora like she was crazy. Some were seriously freaked out. They said it was stress. But something wasn't right—she just didn't know what.
From that night, she started hearing whispers again—cries in the dark, the girl's teary face, the hand yanking her hair and pulling her back. Cora stopped sleeping. She kept listening, recording the thuds. No amount of chocolate cake made her feel normal.
She left her room for fresh air.
She ran into him in the elevator. She couldn't shake the nauseating fear.
"Hi, do you still hear noises?" Trace asked.
Cora felt trapped. She lied, scared of what might happen—would she even return to her room tonight? Would she be the next victim?
"I was out of the country when it happened. You must have been scared. Next time, you can call the landlord. He's family. He can check the noise. I'm afraid of stalkers too," Trace said softly—but in Cora's head, it sounded predatory. A warning. A hint she was next.
"Okay," she said, stepping out of the elevator.
"Nice meeting you," Trace called.
She hurried toward a safer place—somewhere with people. Somewhere she wouldn't be dragged like her.