Elena Rivers
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She stopped opening the curtains.
It made no difference anyway—daylight didn't make her feel safer, and the dark had long since stopped waiting for night. It followed her. Pressed close to her spine. Crawled up the back of her throat every time she tried to speak about it.
But what could she even say?
There's someone in my head.
He leaves me notes.
He's beautiful and terrifying and I think I've seen him before—in dreams, in shadows, in moments that don't make sense anymore.
She hadn't eaten in two days.
The bracelet was the last straw.
She had found it on her bathroom sink, placed neatly on a folded white hand towel. It hadn't been there the night before.
She had locked the door. She was sure.
She checked it again. Bolted. Chained. Alarm on.
But he had been inside. Not just her apartment.
Her space. Her life. Her mind.
And she hated herself for one thing more than any of it—
She put the bracelet on.
Why?
Because it felt familiar. Like slipping back into a version of herself she didn't recognize, but somehow missed.
Was that what obsession did? Made the cage feel like a home if the bars were painted with memory?
Her phone buzzed once. A message.
Unknown Number:
"Don't be afraid of the fall. It's where I'll catch you."
She stared at it. No reply. No block. Just stared. Until the screen dimmed and her reflection stared back.
Eyes darker. Shoulders heavier.
Lips slightly parted, as if she were waiting for a kiss that never came.
She was losing pieces of herself, one thought at a time.
And the terrifying part?
She wasn't sure she wanted them back.
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