"I'll make a meaningful move now. Thanks for your advice, Grace."
The call ends.
The sudden silence is deafening.
Grace stares at her phone, the screen still lit, her reflection flickering in the glass.
"What… was that?" she murmurs, brows drawing together. Her voice is barely above a whisper.
Something feels wrong. Not just wrong—off. Like a shadow moving in a place it shouldn't be. Like the air has shifted around her, grown heavier.
Her body tenses instinctively. She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't even know what to feel.
Then—click.
The sound of the door lock turning behind her.
She spins around, heart stuttering in her chest.
It's her mom, stepping through the door with her purse slung over one shoulder.
"Oh—Mom," Grace says, breath rushing out of her like she's been holding it in for hours. Relief washes over her, fast and fleeting.
Her mother smiles, oblivious to the tension in the room.
"Grace, this was left outside. I found it in front of the door."
She steps out of her shoes, walking into the living room as she hands over a small white envelope.
"A letter?" Grace says, confused.
She takes it from her, turning it over in her hands.
There's no sender's name. Just her own—Grace Silver—written in dark, jagged handwriting across the center. No stamp. No address.
Her mother disappears into the master bedroom without another word.
Grace stares at the envelope.
Her name looks… off. The handwriting seems rushed. It's crooked. Gruesome even.
"Where is this from…" she whispers to herself.
Slowly, she tears the envelope open.
Inside is a single sheet of white paper, folded once.
She unfolds it.
The words hit her like a physical blow.
That's all it says.
She drops the letter. It flutters to the floor like dead weight.
Her hands refuse to touch it again. Her chest rises and falls too quickly now. Her heart drums against her ribs.
She turns her eyes toward the front door—toward the world beyond it—with a sickening sense of dread rising inside her.
Something's already in motion.
And she doesn't know what's coming.
"How did he… get all the way up to my door that fast?" Grace murmurs, her eyes back to the envelope lying on the floor like it's ticking.
Her pulse hammers beneath her skin.
She turns and bolts down the hall.
In the master bedroom, the bathroom light is on. The sound of running water trickles through the partially open door. Her mom is inside, standing at the sink with her eyes closed, gently massaging cleansing foam over her face.
"Mom," Grace says, stopping in the doorway.
"Yeah?" her mom replies casually, focused on her cleansing.
"I have to tell you something." Her voice is quieter now, weighed down by hesitation.
"What is it?" her mom asks, voice muffled as she rubs circles into her cheeks.
Grace swallows hard. Her throat feels tight.
"I think I'm being stalked."
The words land like a hammer.
Her mom's hands freeze in mid-air, white bubbles clinging to her fingers. For a moment, nothing moves but the sound of the faucet.
Then, quickly, she turns on the tap and splashes water across her face in hurried strokes. Foam streams down the sides of her cheeks and into the sink.
As soon as she wipes herself clean with the towel hanging by the mirror, she looks at Grace—her face now bare, pale, and tense.
"What do you mean you're being stalked?" she asks, an alarm flashing in her eyes. "You mean like someone's following you?"
Grace nods, her gaze falling.
"Yeah… and I think that letter you brought in earlier—it's from him."
She sees her mother's expression shift from confusion to full-blown concern.
Then, without hesitation, Grace begins to explain everything. The anonymous texts. The phone calls. The photos. The hotel picture. The creepy laughter. The threats. The voice on the phone. How he seems to know too much. How close he's gotten.
She holds nothing back.
By the end, her mother is speechless. Her lips part, but for a moment, nothing comes out.
Then she finds her voice. "No. No, this is serious. You need to call the police, now. Report this—everything. This guy's clearly unstable."
"But Mom…" Grace's voice trembles. "What if I do, and he loses it? What if he uploads that photo? It's not what it looks like, but that won't matter. It'll destroy Professor Julian's career. And if this guy is serious about wanting revenge or control or whatever… he'll do it."
"Well, still," her mom says, arms crossed, face clouded with concern. "You can't just keep living like this—being stalked and scared every day, Grace. If that guy uploads the picture… just explain it online. Tell people it's not what it looks like." She pauses, thinking. "Say… you were locked out of the hotel room. That you were in the middle of a shower and didn't have time to get dressed properly—" She stops mid-sentence, squinting as the idea hits her fully. "Okay," she admits, frowning. "That sounds incredibly fake."
"Exactly," Grace sighs, rubbing her forehead. "No one's going to believe that. The photo already looks bad, and if I try to explain it, I'll just sound like I'm making it worse."
That's when her phone vibrates in her hand.
She glances down absently, assuming it's just another app notification. Probably just some random group message or news alert.
But then it buzzes again. And again. And again.
A rapid-fire storm of vibrations follows.
Grace frowns, unlocking the screen. Her breath catches.
There are five new messages—two from Harry, three from a girl named Mila, who's barely spoken to her before but is in one of her group project chats.
Harry:
Mila:
Grace stares at the screen, frozen. Her throat tightens. Her fingers go cold.
What are they talking about…?
But even as she asks herself the question, the answer slams into her gut like a fist. She already knows. Somehow, some way—the stalker's posted the photo.
Her pulse skyrockets.
"What is it?" her mom asks, watching her daughter's expression collapse.
"Umm…" Grace forces herself to respond, her voice tight. "Let me call my friend Harry. I'll be back—I promise."
She turns and rushes back into the living room, phone clutched in her hand. Her fingers tremble as she taps the call button next to Harry's name. It rings once, maybe twice—
Then he answers.
"Grace!" Harry's voice bursts through the line, loud, anxious, on edge. "What is that picture all about?"
She hears the background noise immediately—cars, the low hum of city life. Harry's outside. His voice is strained, tense, like he doesn't know how to say what he has to say.
"Harry, what do you mean?" Grace demands, her breath catching. "What picture? Where is it uploaded?"
There's a beat of silence. On the other end, Harry hesitates.
"Grace… before I say anything, I just want you to know—I don't believe it. I mean, I know you're not that kind of person. It's gotta be a misunderstanding, right?"
Her stomach sinks further.
"Hotel?" she asks, her voice flat.
Harry exhales.
"Yeah. You and Julian. There's a photo of you two… walking into a hotel room together. And you're, um… just wrapped in a towel."
Grace closes her eyes and lets out a heavy, bitter sigh. Her heart races with a mixture of panic and fury.
It's out. He actually did it.
The stalker didn't just threaten her. He followed through. Just like he said he would.
"Where is it, Harry?" she asks, voice now low and steady, despite the chaos rising inside her.
"The picture?" he repeats.
"Yes," she says, sharper. "Where is it?"
Another pause.
Then Harry answers, quietly. "It's on the school community site. The student forums. There are… thousands of views already. People are reposting it. Talking about it."
Grace exhales again, her hand falling to her side, still gripping the phone like it might break in her palm.
This can't be real.
But it is.
The worst part isn't just that the photo is out there. It's the context. The silence that follows. The way people will choose their own narratives. The stares. The whispers. The judgment.
The damage is already happening.
"All right, umm…" Grace shuts her eyes, overwhelmed by a wave of disbelief. Her voice quivers as she exhales, "I'll check it right now… yeah."
Her mind blanks out completely—words desert her. It's as if someone flipped a switch and her thoughts vanished into white noise.
Harry's voice cuts through the haze, low and worried. "Are you really okay, Grace? I know it's not true. I mean… at least, it's not what it looks like, right?"
"Of course not," she says, the answer immediate, firm. "It's not what it looks like. I'm going to fix it now. Thanks, Harry. I'll talk to you later."
"Okay… take care."
She ends the call. For a moment, she stands frozen, phone still in her hand. Then, slowly, she releases a sharp breath. Inhale. Exhale. Again.
Grace moves toward her bedroom. The room is dark, curtains drawn tight against the morning light, but she doesn't bother turning on the lamp. She sits at her desk, laptop in front of her like a sealed vault. With hesitant fingers, she flips it open—like she's unlocking Pandora's box.