Riya didn't realize when morning arrived slowly, pale light slipping through the thin, gray curtains of her apartment.
She was still sitting on the floor, her back against the bed, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, but she wasn't thinking about rest.
She was thinking about him.
Unknown Number.
His words replayed in her mind over and over: Because I'm here. What did that mean? Her room? Her building? Or just... her life? She looked at the drafting sheet. The corner she had fixed—the one he pointed out—looked perfect now. She knew she hadn't imagined it.
The alarm rang at seven.
Reality returned without mercy.
Submission day.
Her body felt heavy. Her head hurt. But she forced herself to stand, folding her bedsheet neatly as if routine could steady her thoughts.She quickly gathered her sheets, stacked her drawings carefully, and placed them inside her portfolio.
She washed her face quickly and tied her hair into a loose ponytail. Her phone stayed in her hand the entire time. She didn't know why. She just didn't want to put it down.
Chicago was cold that morning.
The city was awake. The wind moved sharply between buildings as she waited for the bus , her shoulders hunched, her chin tucked into her scarf. People filled the streets, bracing against the cold wind. Life continued in its loud, indifferent rhythm. But inside her, something had changed. Her eyes kept scanning faces around her. Strangers. All strangers.
The bus ride to the college felt longer than usual.
College was the same. Loud. Crowded. Indifferent. Students walked past her without noticing her existence.Some laughed. Some complained about submissions. Some slept on desks. Normal life. She envied it.She walked into her classroom quietly and took her usual seat.
She placed her portfolio on the desk and sat down. Her phone rested beside her. Silent. She kept looking at it.
"Submission," the professor's voice echoed.
Students walked forward one by one, submitting their work. When it was her turn, she stood and walked to the front, her legs feeling disconnected from her body. Her hands trembled slightly. She handed over her portfolio, her pulse thrumming in her fingertips. And her breath hitching as the professor flipped through the pages.The professor looked through her drawings and paused at the left corner. Then he nodded. "Good improvement,
Just two words. But they mattered. They mattered more than he knew. She nodded silently and returned to her seat. Her chest felt lighter. For a moment. Then her eyes went back to her phone. Still nothing. A strange disappointment settled inside her. Why did she care?
The day passed slowly. Classes ended, and students left in groups, talking about their plans for the evening. Riya walked alone. The sun was already dipping behind the skyscrapers. Riya walked to the bus stop, her shoulders hunched against the wind. Her phone stayed silent all day.The silence followed her all the way back to her apartment.
By the time Riya reached her room, her body felt heavier than her thoughts.
She didn't switch on all the lights. Only the small lamp near her desk. The rest of the room remained in shadows, familiar but distant. She dropped her bag near the chair and stood still for a moment.Too still.The silence felt different tonight.
She told herself it was because she was tired.
Submission stress. Lack of sleep. Overthinking.
Nothing more.
She locked the door. Checked it once.Then checked it again.She checked the windows. She even looked inside her closet, feeling ridiculous and terrified at the same time.
She walked slowly toward her bed and sat down, her phone still in her hand. The screen was dark now. No notifications. No proof that the night before had happened.
She opened the messages again.
Are you awake?
You should sleep. You have a submission today.
staring at that final line: Because I'm here.
She searched her memory carefully. Had she mentioned her submission somewhere? Anyone could have seen her carrying that massive portfolio for weeks. Anyone. That thought should have comforted her. It didn't.
That thought should have comforted her. It didn't.
She lay back on the bed without changing her clothes. The ceiling above her looked unfamiliar tonight, as if the room had shifted subtly while she was gone. She turned onto her side, curling her body into a ball around the phone. Her eyes moved to the window. The curtains were drawn. Still, she imagined someone standing outside. No. That was ridiculous.
She pushed herself up suddenly and looked around the room. Closet door—closed. Bathroom—light off. Under the desk—empty. She felt foolish even checking. But her heart was beating faster now. Not fear. Not exactly. Just awareness. A sharp awareness of being alone.
She sat back down slowly. "Stop," she whispered to herself.
He never threatened her. He only texted. Only at night. Only words. She lay down again, this time turning onto her side. She placed the phone beside her pillow but didn't let go of it completely.
Her body was exhausted. Her mind wasn't.
Minutes passed. Then more. The apartment remained silent. No footsteps in the hallway. No knocks on the door. No movement outside the window. Just her breathing. Gradually, her thoughts stopped racing and began circling instead. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe this was nothing. Maybe she wanted it to mean something.
That possibility unsettled her the most.
At some point, without realizing when, her eyes closed. Not because she felt safe, but because her body surrendered before her mind did. Darkness settled fully. Silence deepened.
And then— exactly when the world felt the most still.
2:17 AM.
Her phone vibrated sharply against the mattress that felt like an electric shock to her spine. Her eyes snapped open instantly, as if she had never truly fallen asleep at all. She didn't move right away. The screen glowed faintly in the darkness. She just stared at that faint glow.
Unknown Number.
One message: "Are you awake?"