CHAPTER THREE
~THINGS WE DON'T SAY~
"It's easy to trust someone when you're both standing in the dark. But daylight has a way of exposing what shadows hide." – Riley's Journal
The morning after their night by the river, Riley woke up with a strange heaviness in her chest. Not sadness. Not exactly. It was that fragile, buzzing awareness that comes when something in your life has shifted—quietly, but permanently.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fingers tracing patterns on the blanket, trying to remember exactly what he'd said. Not just the words, but the tone. The silences between them.
"You're not supposed to go back. You're supposed to build forward. With what's left"
She should've felt peace in that. But instead, she felt a slow-building unease, like she'd stepped into something delicate and didn't yet understand its weight.
She rolled over and checked her phone. One message.
Jacob: Didn't sleep. Your fault.
She smiled in spite of herself, then typed back:
Riley: Good. You're finally interesting.
---
By afternoon, she was in her darkroom, the only place in the world where time seemed to bend. The smell of dusty walls
grounded her not choking or too strong. The red light painted everything in memory. As she watched one of the prints develop, she felt her throat tighten.
It was the photo from the train ride—the one she'd taken of Jacob, when he wasn't quite smiling, when he looked like a thought pulled straight from the middle of a memory.
But now… something was off.
She leaned closer, squinting.
In the far background, blurred and barely visible in the train window reflection—was a second figure. Not just a stranger passing by. Someone watching.
She blinked.
Zoomed.
Still too grainy to make out clearly. Just the suggestion of a man in a heavy coat. Facing them. Standing far too still.
She stared at it for another few minutes, her mind already trying to rationalize it. A fluke. A reflection. A ghost of movement caught at the wrong angle.
But her stomach told her otherwise.
---
That evening, she met Jacob again—this time at a quiet bar tucked beneath a record store. He was already there when she arrived, nursing something dark in a short glass, the collar of his jacket damp with rain. She stared at him for some seconds not sure of what she was expecting.
His face brightened as he saw her
"You're here"
She jerked back to reality.
"Good evening " her voice calm and soothing.
"Thanks" he nodded signaling her to sit.
"Oh thanks"Riley smiled
"I've been meaning to ask," she said, studying him carefully. "What do you do, Jacob?"
He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "You mean besides show up in strangers' photos?"
"Yeah. That."
"I used to restore old murals. You know, the ones peeling off brick in alleyways and old school walls."
"That sounds… kind of beautiful."
"It was."
"Why'd you stop?"
His hand tightened slightly around the glass. "Let's just say I made something too visible. And someone didn't like it."
Riley tilted her head. "That's vague."
"I know."
And he wasn't going to say more.
But now there was a thrum beneath her ribs she couldn't ignore.
Because Jacob wasn't just mysterious. He was guarded.
And maybe, just maybe… running from something.
---
Later, as she walked home alone, Riley scrolled back through her camera roll, back to that photo in the train window. She zoomed in again on the figure in the background.
Still grainy. Still anonymous. But somehow, unmistakably deliberate.
Someone had been watching.
Not just the city. Her.
...…
The next morning, after having egg sandwich and tea for breakfast, she took the photo to her desk and printed a high-resolution version. She blew up the background, adjusted the contrast, sharpened the edges. But no matter how much she edited, the figure remained stubbornly obscure—like the image itself was resisting clarity.
She tried not to spiral.
People were caught in the background of photos all the time. It didn't mean anything. But she couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't random.
That he wasn't random.
---
She called Mara.
"Hey what's up " Mara voice echoed through the phone
"You ever feel like a photo is trying to tell you something?"
"Always," Mara said. "It's why I don't hang them in my bedroom. They stare at you when you're sleeping."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Riley hesitated, then dropped her voice. "I think someone's watching me."
Silence on the other end. Then Mara's voice came back, careful. "You mean in real life watching, or like, paranoia watching?"
"I don't know yet."
Another pause.
"Is this about that guy?" Mara asked. "The one from the train yard?"
Riley stared at the print again. "Maybe."
"You want me to ask around? I've got a couple friends who work with private security. I can be discreet."
Riley almost said no. Almost told her she was overreacting. But something in her gut said this wasn't just creative anxiety or emotional bleed-through.
"Yeah," she said softly. "That might be smart."
"Ok anything else"
"No….. for now" Riley said chuckling
"Bye"
---
That night, Jacob texted her.
Jacob: Can I see you?
She almost ignored it. Almost told him something had come up. But curiosity was a powerful thing. And her heart didn't seem to care what her head was screaming.
Riley: Where?
Jacob: My place. I'll send the address.
The building was on the edge of Chinatown—faded green awning, rusted fire escapes, a keypad entry he buzzed her through without hesitation. Third floor. Apartment 3B.
When she stepped inside, it smelled like rain and old wood and something herbal—tea or maybe incense. The space was small, but warm. Worn leather couch. Books stacked in uneven piles. Canvases leaned against the walls, some half-finished, some covered in dust.
He stood in the kitchenette, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a vinyl record spinning low behind him.
"You came," he said.
"You asked."
"I wasn't sure you would."
"I wasn't sure either."
He handed her a mug. Something warm. She didn't ask what was in it.
"This place suits you," she said, glancing around.
"It's borrowed."
"From who?"
He hesitated. "An old friend. He's gone a lot."
"Gone like... vacation? Or gone like disappeared?"
Jacob just smiled—mysterious, almost amused.
She set her drink down and walked toward a canvas near the window. It was a painting—bold, abstract, with streaks of red and gray and something dark in the middle that looked like a broken eye.
"Yours?" she asked.
He nodded. "It's called Still Watching."
Riley froze.
"Why that title?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
Jacob didn't answer right away. Instead, he crossed the room, slowly, until they stood just a breath apart.
"Some things don't leave you," he said. "Even when they should."
She could've stepped back. Should've, maybe.
"wow thats a nice title "
"thanks." he said moving an inch backward
She wanted to ask questions.
About Claire. About the man in the reflection. About the painting that seemed to know more than he'd ever said out loud.
But instead, she just whispered, "Why do I feel like it's about to rain"
"Because there is." Jacob answered
"I need to go ….. my clothes are outside, you know it would be a waste of my hardwork if they get beaten by rain"
"Sure see you later "
She was greatful she got home in time. The clothes dancing as the wind blows them from side to side.She sighed in relief before packing them up.
.....
It was past seven now. Riley took her camera and headed to her favorite all-night café in 10 minutes she was there. sat near the back, staring at the camera in her lap. The last few photos burned behind her eyes. Jacob's face. The man in the reflection. The blur of something unfinished.
She ordered an iced Americano,While taking pictures of the street light and strangers walking.
Her order finally arrived.
A beautiful lady who seemed to be in her early 20s served her.
"Thank you "
After an hour she decided to home.
---
The next morning, she didn't call Jacob. Didn't answer his text. Instead, she spent four hours cross-referencing security footage.
She'd reached out to her old professor—Dr. Hewitt, a soft-spoken, semi-retired archivist who owed her favors from her senior thesis days.
"Just one train camera," she'd said. "From two nights ago. I need to match something."
He hadn't asked why. He just gave her access.
She scrolled through time stamped files, frame by frame, like peeling back the layers of a dream she wished she could unsee.
And then—
There he was.
The man from the photo. Standing at the far end of the platform.
Wearing the same coat.
Facing the car Jacob and Riley had been in.
Not pacing. Not distracted.
Watching.
Riley zoomed in. Froze the frame. Clicked for metadata. Nothing helpful. But her gut told her everything she needed to know.
This wasn't a coincidence.
---
That night, Mara called back.
"Hey. So, I asked around."
Riley stood in her darkroom again, staring at that same blown-up photo of Jacob.
"And?"
"Someone I know used facial recognition software—he matched your mystery guy."
Riley's pulse jumped. "Who is he?"
There was a pause.
"That's the thing," Mara said. "He's not some stalker off the street. His name's Nathan Hale. Former private contractor. Did work overseas, low profile. Now listed under a quiet security firm called Greybridge."
Riley frowned. "Why would someone like that be tailing me?"
"He's not."
"What do you mean?"
"He's not tailing you, Riley."
Mara's voice dropped. "He's tailing Jacob."
"Why?"
I don't know
"Okay thanks you are the best "
"Oh please" Mara ended the call
---
The next time Jacob called, she didn't answer.
She sat in her apartment, the city outside muffled and strange, replaying everything.
His vagueness.
The scars on his hands.
The borrowed apartment.
The things he didn't say.
She looked again at the painting: Still Watching.
She had taken a few shots. Wondering why he gave it that title.
---
Near midnight, her phone buzzed again.
Jacob: I need to talk to you. Please.
She stared at it.
Then, finally, answered.
Riley: Are you in danger?
Those were the words that came to her head . Yes, it's possible he might be in danger, the man trailing him might have caught up to him.
There was no reply for several minutes. And when it finally came,
Jacob: yes.