Chapter 3 – Unknown Numbers

Clara’s Pov

The glow of my phone screen lit the dark room, and for a moment I didn’t know if I was awake or dreaming. “Sweet dreams, Clara. Don’t stay up worrying.” The text burned into my vision like it had tattooed itself onto my eyelids.

It wasn’t Adrian’s saved number. I checked twice, three times, scrolling back through our message history. Adrian’s name, neat and clear, all our exchanges in one thread. But this message came from an entirely different string of digits. Blocky. Anonymous.

I sat frozen, my spine stiff against the headboard, ears straining for sounds beyond the hum of the city. Paranoia made me imagine footsteps in the hallway, someone breathing just outside my door. I turned my lamp brighter, my trembling hand gripping my phone like it was a weapon.

Maybe it was Adrian. Maybe he’d gotten a new SIM card, or maybe he had some work phone. That had to be it. Rational. Logical. Right?

But why wouldn’t he just text from the number I already had?

I nearly called Renee, my fingers hovering over her contact, but it was after midnight, and she had early meetings all week. I could hear her voice in my head if I woke her—half irritation, half concern—“Girl, you’re being dramatic again. Not every mystery number is a stalker.”

But something about this felt deliberate. He—or whoever—knew my thoughts, knew I was lying wide awake. That wasn’t playful. That wasn’t random. That was… targeted.

I tried to will myself back to sleep, tossing under my sheets, turning off the lamp, turning it back on. My heart just wouldn’t slow. Eventually, exhaustion won and dragged me under, though my dreams weren’t peaceful. Images of shadows standing over my bed or faceless men under umbrellas chased me through restless fragments.

By the time morning came, my head felt heavy, eyes gritty. I dragged myself into work, clutching coffee like it was medicine. My boss barely glanced at me as I passed his office, buried deep in memoranda as always, so no one questioned the dark circles under my eyes.

But inside my chest was a tightening coil I couldn’t unspool.

Adrian texted mid-morning. From his normal number.

“Lunch today? Escape the office with me.”

For five minutes I just stared at the screen, unable to decide if I should pretend nothing was wrong or confront him directly. My finger hovered over the keyboard, then I typed the safest thing I could.

“Sure. Where?”

Two hours later, I was sitting across from him at one of those cozy wine-and-panini places near Bryant Park. Adrian looked freshly pressed in a navy shirt, skin glowing, and his dark hair perfectly tousled. He reached across the table, brushing his thumb lightly against my wrist. That small touch should’ve soothed me. Instead, my nerves screamed.

“You look tired,” he said softly. “Didn’t sleep?”

“Not great,” I admitted.

“Nightmares?” His gaze fixed on me a little too long.

I hesitated. “Kind of. Something like that.”

If he noticed my vagueness, he didn’t push. He leaned back with a smile, launching into a story about an upcoming architectural project, sketching shapes on his napkin like a boy doodling in class. He was charming, magnetic—all the things that had pulled me in from the start.

And yet, the entire time he talked, I kept remembering that message. “Sweet dreams, Clara.” My stomach turned with unease.

Finally, I tested the waters.

“Hey, this is random,” I said, sipping my coffee, “but do you ever, like, use a different phone for work? Or… a different number?”

Adrian’s eyes flickered—just the briefest shift—before his smile returned. “Why do you ask?”

I forced a shrug. “Oh, nothing. Just curious.”

His hand closed gently over mine. “I only use the one number you have. Why? Did someone bother you?”

The way he asked the question made my throat run dry. Did I tell him the truth? That some stranger had texted me words that fit too perfectly with his voice? That in my gut I already suspected it was him writing from another number, playing with my head?

“No. Not exactly. Probably just spam.”

“Spam,” he repeated slowly, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. Then he let go of my hand with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Technology’s invasive. People can reach you anywhere these days.”

The words were casual, but the way he said reach you didn’t feel casual at all. It felt like a reminder.

The rest of lunch passed in polite conversation, but my stomach remained knotted. Afterward, as he kissed me goodbye on the corner, his lips brushing mine with practiced ease, the same thought raced through my mind over and over:

He’s too perfect. And perfection covers something.

Back at the office, while papers piled on my desk, I couldn’t focus. I googled How to trace a text message pretending it was for research, but every article told me what I already knew—unless someone made a mistake, anonymous numbers weren’t easily tracked. It didn’t help that part of me was afraid of the truth. Afraid of what would happen if I did trace it and confirmed what my gut whispered.

That evening, Renee was sprawled on the couch when I got home, eating popcorn and watching some glossy reality show.

“You’re glowing,” she said, grinning. “How’s dreamboat Adrian?”

The laugh that slipped out of me sounded hollow, even to me.

“What? Already fighting?” she teased. She tossed a kernel in my direction. “Don’t tell me you’re scared because he’s too perfect. This isn’t one of your crime shows.”

I forced a smile, sinking beside her. But instead of answering, I reached into my bag, pulling my phone free.

The unknown number sat at the top of my inbox like a loaded gun. The message untouched, dangerous.

I clicked it open again. Read the words slowly, tasting their wrongness.

“Sweet dreams, Clara. Don’t stay up worrying.”

Renee leaned, peering over my shoulder. “Who’s that from?”

“I don’t know,” I said quietly.

She frowned. “When did you get that?”

“Last night. Middle of the night.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Creepy, yeah. But could’ve been Adrian being flirty.”

I shook my head. “He swears he only uses one number. Why would he lie about something so small?”

She shrugged, dismissive. “Because men are weird? Look, anonymous texts happen all the time. I once had a guy text me for weeks only to figure out he had the wrong Renee saved. Just block it.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe this was all in my overactive brain. But when I locked my phone, I saw the reflection of myself in the black screen—my eyes wide, anxious—and knew I didn’t believe my own excuses.

Later that night, as Renee snored softly in the next room, I lay awake again, phone clutched beside me on the pillow. I promised myself I wouldn’t look. I promised myself I’d ignore it.

Then, just after 1 a.m., the screen lit up. The same number.

A new message.

This one said:

“I like watching you when you don’t know.”