Time: 10:07 AM

The door unlocks with a dull beep and a hiss. I step inside.

The air hits me first.

Not just warmth—weight. A thickness I can't place. Like the room's been sweating out something secret while I was gone.

I pause just inside, letting the silence settle around my shoulders. No creak of Arjun's desk chair, no kettle humming. Just the drone of the ceiling fan and something else—faint, almost floral, but not quite. Cardamom? Not mine. Not his. Something softer, stranger. Intimate in the way perfume clings to skin, to breath.

I shut the door and toe off my sneakers. A drop of sweat slides down my spine.

The windows are shut. Curtains half-drawn. Same as I left them. But the light in here looks... off. Warmer. Like the room's been watched.

I scratch the back of my neck, hair still damp from walking through the sun. The tank top clings to me, loose at the chest, soaked where my backpack had pressed against my back.

I shrug it off and toss it on the chair. My skin's flushed, overheated. I move toward the rack by the window, fingers instinctively brushing over the tees—black, blue, a faded white one with threadbare edges. My hand stops at the one I always reach for when I'm too tired to think. My go-to. Familiar as breath.

I lift it off the hook.

It's damp.

Not sweat-damp. Cold-damp. Like someone rinsed it in their hands and let it air dry halfway. The fabric sticks between my fingers, the weight unnatural.

I sniff it without meaning to.

There's something clinging to it—sweet. Almost musky. And not me. Not soap. Not cologne. Something human. My skin prickles.

What the hell?

I toss the tank top onto the bed and stare at it like it might twitch.

I don't like how that smell is still in the room. And it's not just the shirt—it's in the sheets, the air, the folds of the curtain. Subtle. Insistent.

I drop onto the bed, hands bracing either side of me. The mattress dips under my weight. My eyes scan the room like I'm trying to catch something out of place.

Nothing is.

And yet everything is.

My muscles are tight. I run a hand over my jaw, feel the roughness there—missed a shave, maybe. The cut of my own cheekbones is sharper when I'm worn down, bones more pronounced. My reflection in the mirror across the desk is gaunt but not unpleasant.

I see what other people must see when they look at me: tall, dark-haired, brows always slightly furrowed, collarbones sticking out like they want to cut through something. That accidental kind of attractive. Broken in a way that makes people wonder if they should fix you or just... watch.

I've never known what to do with that gaze. Someone once said I looked like a ruin people write poetry about. I laughed, but she didn't.

I glance back at the tank top again. Still damp. Still wrong.

I sit at my desk, suddenly cold despite the heat.

My laptop's right where I left it. So is the stack of books. Everything looks untouched. But I know how I left things—I always know. The mouse is slightly off-center. The mat shifted half an inch to the right. I reach out to straighten it, fingers brushing the corner, when I freeze.

A scrap of white peeks out from underneath.

I slide the mouse pad to the side.

A note. Folded. Thin paper, neatly creased.

My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.

I stare at it for a second, as if it might vanish.

I pick it up.

The handwriting is narrow, elegant, and unfamiliar. But there's a rhythm to it. A certainty. Each letter presses like a fingertip.

Do you feel me yet?
You should. I'm the heartbeat in your silence.

The paper is warm from where it sat.

My mouth goes dry.

The room buzzes.

I glance around, half-expecting to catch someone in the doorway. But there's no one. Just the fan spinning slow circles above my head. My heart is pounding. Not fast. Not panicked.

Insistent.

I reread the note.

The handwriting curves gently at the "y" in "you." As if whoever wrote it meant to be comforting. Or seductive. Or both.

I press my palm flat against the desk to steady myself. The damp shirt is still on the bed, and now I can't not connect it. The scent. The shifted mouse. The note.

But nothing else is out of place. No fingerprints. No open drawers. No disturbed pile of papers.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the unease, but it just settles deeper into my chest.

Did I leave the door unlocked?

No. I never do.

Still... maybe Arjun came in looking for something. Maybe Vedant played a prank. Maybe—

None of them would write this.

None of them would leave something that feels like it belongs inside your skin.

I slide the note under the keyboard. Out of sight. But I feel it, like an ember just behind my ribs.

The room feels claustrophobic now. Like the walls are listening.

I get up too quickly, nearly tripping on the tank top. My foot catches on the hem. I pick it up and toss it toward the hamper, but it lands on the desk chair. A dark curl of hair—not mine—clings to the fabric.

I don't touch it.

I don't want to.

My eyes sting. I blink hard, heart thudding. There's something about being watched without knowing it happened.

And now I can't unknow it.

The smell is still here.

So is the silence.

And somewhere in it... a heartbeat.

I sit back down at the desk, eyes fixed on the spot where I slid the note into hiding. My chest hammers so loud I can almost hear it in my ears. Every logical thought scrambles against one insistent question: What the fuck?

My hands shake as I lift the mousepad again. The note glows like fresh ink on paper.

Do you feel me yet?
You should. I’m the heartbeat in your silence.

I stare, the words pulsing in my vision. My throat tightens. My mouth opens, then closes. Finally, I croak,
“What the fuck…”
and trail off.

No one’s here to hear it. Just walls and the drone of the fan.

I half-expect something to step out from the shadows, but there’s only emptiness. The flat remains unnaturally still, each inch familiar—and yet every sense is screaming warning.

I lean forward, fingertips hovering over the keys. I don’t want to leave the note lying where I found it, but burying it feels like swallowing a live thing. My mind is a storm of suspicion.

I push the chair back and pace. The polished wood floor creaks under my boots. I brush past my bookshelf, fingertips trailing over spines I’ve read a dozen times. Nothing jumps out. No other sign of intrusion.

Maybe it was Arjun. He did have a key… no, he never uses it. He has his own comfort zone. He wouldn’t dare invade my room without telling me first.

Maybe Vedant.
But Vedant is a fiction.
I smile bitterly.

I move back to the bed and pick up that damp tank top. It’s still clinging to the chair in a way that makes sense only in hindsight. I press it to my face, trying to ground myself. The scent is still there: cotton, musk, faintly of rain. And beneath it… something else. Something colder.

I toss the shirt onto the bed, untucked. My reflection catches in the mirror above the dresser—sweat beading at my hairline, eyes dark-rimmed, lips parted. Even in this moment of panic, I look… good. Vigilant. Haunted.
Like a ruin someone would write poetry about.
Like a warrior battered by war and still standing.

I fight the urge to call Rhea. She’s already worried. She tried to help yesterday. I don’t want to drag her deeper into this. She deserves normal.

Instead, I pull out my phone and type a message to Vedant:

Me:
man… weird shit in my room. Did anyone come in?

I study the screen. It’s blank. No reply. I hit send.

Minutes pass; the window’s single pane blurs with condensation. I watch the street below, empty now, garbage bins rocked by a late gust.
I feel eyes on me. Not a literal someone—just that uncanny impression of being observed.

I try to think of something else. Anything. I open a new document:

I thought solitude was my sanctuary.
Now it’s a cage with unseen bars.

I stop. Even that sounds too melodramatic. But it fits.

My phone buzzes.

Vedant:
dude… are you ok? text is weird.

Weird. That single word lands like a slap. I stare at it, thumb hovering. I want to tell him. I want to confess—someone’s been in my room. Someone is watching me.
But I can’t. Not yet. The confession tastes like defeat.

Instead, I type:

Me:
yeah. just tired. finals stress.

And delete the draft about solitude.

I unlock the door to the hallway—half expecting to see a figure slip away, but it’s empty. I close it behind me and lean back, heart pounding.

Back at the desk, I glance at the note again—its cursive slant still glowing under the desk lamp.
It’s a challenge.
Feel me.
I am your heartbeat.

The words carve themselves into my skin.

I think of the times I’ve felt most alive: first blood from sprinting home in the rain, midnight adrenaline at the café when Priya’s hand brushed mine, that single stolen kiss of her chai’s foam on my lip—her offering, though it tasted like coffee.

I want that again.
I want her again.

The storm cloud of dread and longing merges inside me, each inhale a plea. I stand, tug my hoodie back on, and slip out of the flat—no passcode needed between the two rooms.

Walking down the stairs, I realize how charismatic I look in motion: dark hoodie open, chest rising and falling, jeans clinging to lean muscle, eyes wary but sharp.
Even in panic, I have a kind of savage allure—like a lone wolf among the sheep.

Outside, the rain patters again. I lift my collar, breath steaming in the air. I don’t know where she is. I don’t know what she’ll do next.

But I know this:

I won’t be safe until I face her.
Until I feel her heartbeat in my silence.

And so I walk, hoodie up, phone in hand—each step a vow.

The shower’s hot spray should have scalded the terror away, but it only drove it deeper, into my bones. Steam pooled at my feet, swirling like ghosts around the drain. I closed my eyes as the water hammered my shoulders, then my skull, trying to wash out the memory of the note.

“Do you feel me yet? You should. I’m the heartbeat in your silence.”

Every word echoed in the hiss of the shower. I scrubbed my face raw, fingertips grazing the scar beneath my jaw—the one I barely remember getting. The mirror in the stall was fogged, but I imagined my own wide eyes staring back: haunted, suspicious, broken.

When I turned off the tap, the world snapped into focus with a wet click. I wrapped the towel around my waist and stepped out, every nerve ablaze. The bathroom smelled of steam and shampoo—no hint of cinnamon or something warmer.

Good.

Back in my room, I paused at the dresser. My shirtless reflection caught in the window: collarbones high, lean hips, a faint shadow of the muscles I’d worked for. I shook off the vulnerability. Something about seeing myself so… exposed made the violation sting.

I reached for my notebook. The half-line I’d scrawled:

“There’s a phantom scent here—sweet and dangerous.”

Fit this. I flipped the page and wrote freshly:

I scrubbed my skin but still taste your ghost.
How do you slip beneath the pores of me?

The words trembled. I closed the book and packed it away, trying to banish the darkness.

A sudden sound—my phone buzzed. I jerked, heart skipping. A message preview blinked:

Vedant: Did you fall asleep?

I tapped it away. Then, in a fit of frustration, I opened the messaging app, thumb hovering over the professor’s name.

Hey, I…

I stared at the blank screen a long moment.

No.

I deleted the draft.

Alone in the hush, I realized I was still reeking of him—like a perfume I couldn’t shed. The room spun. I sank onto the bed and hugged the pillow, closed my eyes, trying to breathe through the ache.

This isn’t real.

But it felt more real than anything else I’d known lately.

I left the flat and stepped into the mid-morning haze. A decision hit me like a lightning bolt: I needed somewhere to be. Somewhere I could be useful and… seen. Yesterday I started at the little bookstore on Crescent Lane, shelving secondhand volumes and helping patrons. It was supposed to distract me.

The bell chimed as I pushed through the door. Old wood, sunlight through stained glass, dust motes drifting in golden beams—this place felt sacred.

“Morning!” called the manager, a grey-haired woman named Suvi. “You’re early.”

I nodded, adjusting the name tag she’d pinned to my chest. “First shift jitters.”

I turned toward the poetry section. A familiar voice laughed—a clear, bright sound. I looked up to see her: a red-haired barista from the café, holding two copies of Neruda. She caught my eye, smiled.

“Surprised to see you here,” she said, voice warm. “Thought you lived in libraries.”

Her name was Naina. She’d started last week too. We’d exchanged a few words on the register—about favorite authors, the uncanny smell of old paper. Today, she leaned against the shelf, her eyes curious.

“You like Neruda?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Only when I’m feeling dramatic,” she laughed. “Which is, um, quite often.” She handed me a volume. “You take this one.”

Her fingers brushed mine. A small spark—different from the storm’s ache. Something lighter.

“Thanks,” I said, heart doing a double-take. “You’re a lifesaver.”

We shelved together, shoulder to shoulder. She told me about her sister’s poetry slam, her apartment full of candles. I smiled and nodded, reciprocating stories about my failed experiments with free-verse and culinary disasters. I felt… normal.

But beneath it all, my mind flickered back to the note. The damp tank top. The haunted hush of my flat.

I took a breath. I needed to keep this—whatever this was—with Naina. With normal spaces. With shared laughter.

As customers trickled in—an elderly man hunting travel guides, a student scanning Gothic novels—Naina looked at me and said, “You’re good at this.”

My chest tightened with something that wasn’t fear. It was… pride. “Thanks,” I said, brushing hair out of my eyes.

And for a moment, I believed it. Not because I wasn’t broken, but because perhaps I could be mended—however briefly—inside the aisles of sunlit pages.

Yet the thought of Someone’s note tugged at my sleeve. Heartbeat.
Somewhere behind these walls, someone was still waiting for me to return—to feel the real pull between us.

But here, sun on my back and paper in my hands, I allowed myself a fraction of peace. I shelved another row of books, heart fluttering with a new rhythm: one of possibility, not just emptiness.