Chapter 4 – Watching

Clara’s Pov

The glow of my phone was the only light in the room. The message on the screen was short, barely a breath of text, but it hit like a scream—I like watching you when you don’t know.

My heartbeat stuttered. The shadows in my apartment no longer felt still. Every creak from the floor above, every whisper of air through the heater, sounded alive. I sat up, pushing my hair off my face, heart pounding against my ribs hard enough to hurt.

Someone was watching me.

Or someone wanted me to believe they were.

I scanned the room, the window blinds, the narrow slice of light coming through from the street outside. Across the street, the windows of facing apartments glowed faintly in the rain’s reflection—mostly dark, some with the blue light of televisions flickering. My building wasn’t new; the windows never shut quite flush, and the curtains never fully covered every inch. Had I left a gap?

I climbed out of bed and closed them tight, my hands trembling.

The logical part of me screamed that the message could be some prank, the kind of random harassment everyone got eventually. But logic didn’t stand a chance against the voice in my head whispering that the text wasn’t random at all.

I walked silently through my apartment, switching on lights one by one. The living room, the kitchen, even the small hallway with my laundry stacked up. Everything looked exactly as I’d left it, yet everything felt wrong.

Back in my bedroom, I grabbed a sweater and sat on the floor beside the bed, pulling my knees to my chest. I typed out a message to Renee, then deleted it. She’d laugh, tell me to turn off my phone and stop spiraling. Maybe she’d be right.

The screen pulsed again. The same number.

Don’t close the curtains.

I dropped the phone. It hit the carpet with a soft thud. The room spun, my breath shallow and fast. Whoever it was wasn’t guessing—whoever it was could see me, right now, as I moved.

I crawled forward and turned off my lamp, plunging the room into darkness. My hands shook so much that I could barely unlock my phone. I opened the text thread again, staring at the words, expecting them to vanish like a dream when fully awake. But they stayed, glowing calmly on the screen.

My brain ricocheted through explanations: maybe someone had hacked my phone camera. Maybe it was some deranged social media troll. But how would they know I’d just closed the curtains?

I couldn’t call the police. What would I even say? “Someone texted me something creepy”? They’d file it away under “harmless prank.”

My thoughts slammed into a name I didn’t want to think: Adrian.

What if he was testing me? Playing a game to see how easily I’d break under pressure? His voice—smooth and steady—echoed in my head, You should trust me, Clara.

By dawn, exhaustion outweighed fear. I hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, just stared at the first sliver of daylight crawling through the blinds I’d reopened halfway, terrified of what I might find if I didn’t.

When my phone buzzed again at 7 a.m., I jumped so hard my knee hit the bedframe. But the name glowed clear on the screen. Adrian.

Morning, beautiful. Big day ahead?

I stared at it, speechless. The tone was casual. Normal. The same man who maybe spent the night texting me from a hidden number was now pretending it hadn’t happened.

I forced a reply. Too early for big days. You?

He answered almost immediately, picking up the easy rhythm from before. The banality of it made my skin crawl. Either he really didn’t know about the messages—or he was playing both sides so convincingly that I didn’t know which part of him was the mask anymore.

That evening we had plans. At his suggestion, we were meeting at his apartment for dinner—his turn to cook. I wanted to cancel so badly that my fingers nearly typed the excuse, but another part of me resisted. If Adrian was behind the unknown number, I needed proof. If he wasn’t, maybe he could help me figure out who was.

When I showed up at his place, the smell of roasted vegetables and lemon and garlic filled the air. His apartment, like always, looked impeccable. Clean lines, dark colors, tasteful art lined perfectly on the walls.

He met me at the door with that same comforting smile. “Hey. You look like you haven’t slept.”

“Bad dreams,” I said, stepping inside.

“Still worrying about those murders?” he asked over his shoulder, setting wine glasses on the counter. My throat tightened at the way he said it, effortless and soft, like it was perfectly natural to discuss a serial case with dinner.

“Kind of,” I admitted. “It’s just… creepy.”

“I can imagine.” He handed me a glass of wine and raised his own. “To feeling safe anyway.”

The words landed sharp and strange. Safe.

I sipped the wine mostly to hide my reaction. His place felt larger than I remembered, quieter. Too quiet. I glanced toward the windows—heavy blackout curtains drawn tight. My reflection stared back faintly in the glass.

Dinner passed in near silence. Adrian asked about my day, I gave one-word answers. My heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to enjoy him again, to slip back into those early nights where everything felt easy. But all I could think of was the phone on my lap, how it might buzz any moment.

He reached across the table, took my hand gently. “Clara,” he said, tone careful, “whatever’s worrying you, you can talk to me.”

My mouth opened before I could stop myself. “Someone’s been texting me.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look surprised. “What kind of messages?”

“The creepy kind. From a number I don’t know.”

He leaned back, arms crossing casually, the picture of calm. “Did you block it?”

“I should have,” I said. “But I didn’t.”

“Because you want to know who it is.” His gaze held mine, that slight tilt of amusement appearing again. “Curiosity’s dangerous, Clara.”

I almost laughed. “Yeah, I’m learning that.”

He smiled faintly. “Show me.”

I unlocked the phone and slid it across the table. Adrian scrolled slowly through the messages, frowning just enough to seem sincere. “Creepy, yeah,” he said finally. “But anyone could’ve sent these. Maybe someone at work—or an old friend with a twisted sense of humor?”

“Maybe,” I said quietly.

He slid the phone back. “I’ll look into it for you. I’m good with tech.”

Something about that sentence twisted the wrong way inside me. His tone was too casual, too prepared.

When I got home that night, I locked the door behind me and didn’t turn on any lights. My phone stayed beside me on the couch like a ticking bomb. Minutes passed. An hour. Nothing. Maybe Adrian’s offer to help meant something. Maybe he’d handled it, somehow.

Then just after midnight, my phone lit up again. The same unknown number.

This time, the message wasn’t words. It was a photo.

My apartment. My living room. Taken from the outside, through the window.

And in the frame, barely visible in the glow of the lamp, was me.