She just needed to know who was watching her.
She wrote a note Monday morning. The same kind of paper. Same fold. Same voice.
“I remember what you did. So do the others.”
She tucked it into the outside flap of her bag, barely zipped. Obvious, but not too obvious. Then she carried on like it’s an ordinary day.
She walked to class early, sat at the far end, and waited.
Zion wasn’t there.
Lanre was.
The air felt thick, expectant. She tried not to look at her bag. Just listened. Watched.
Someone walked past. A brush of fingers against the side of her bag—quick, too smooth to be chance.
Tobi didn’t react.
Not until class ended.
The note was gone.
She found it again in the bathroom stall, tucked between the pages of her course outline.
Not where she left it.
Someone read it. Then returned it.
That night, she opened a new folder on her laptop:
Observation – Possible suspects
She listed inconsistencies:
Zion’s frequent absences
Lanre quoting things he shouldn’t know
The notes
The lines from her book
Then she branched out. Not just them. Other classmates. Lecturers. Anyone who might’ve touched her story.
Her phone becomes a tool. Screenshots. Saved group chats. Archived texts.
She stopped responding to messages. She just watched.
By Thursday, the silence broke.
Zion cornered her outside the café.
Her face was flushed. There was a tremble in her hands.
“Tobi. Are you stalking me?”
Tobi blinked slowly. “No.”
“Then what the hell is all this? I saw your notebook. My name. My schedule. What are you trying to prove?”
“I’m trying to understand who’s been messing with me.”
“Messing with you? What the hell are you even talking about?" Zion's hands flailed in exasperation.
Tobi blinked again.
"So you think it’s me? After everything?”
Tobi didn’t answer.
“You’re losing it,” Zion says, voice cracking. “Lanre said you were acting weird but I said no, Tobi’s just stressed, she’s—”
“You and Lanre have been talking about me?”
Zion flinched. “You’re twisting this.”
“Then what’s the truth?”
Zion hesitated. Then dropped her bag to the bench beside them and emptied it out.
Notes. Wallet. Makeup. Gum. A battered charger.
She spread her hands. “Search. I don’t care. If you think the truth’s in here, go ahead.”
Tobi didn’t move. Just stared.
Zion softened. “Tobi, talk to me. Please. Just ask me what you really want to know.”
Tobi looked down, fists clenched. Then releases a shaky breath.
Zion sighed. “You know what? I’ll start. Yes. I’ve been seeing Lanre.”
Tobi’s head jerked up.
“Two months now. I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d lose your mind over it. Clearly, I was right.”
Tobi opened her mouth—
“You hate his guts, I get it,” Zion says quickly. “I just wanted to wait until… until you were less caught up in this madness.”
Tobi didn’t speak.
“Look. I know something’s off with you lately. I’m not blind. But I can’t help if you don’t let me.”
She took a tentative step closer.
“So? Are you going to let me in or keep doing this detective thing on your own?”
Tobi’s throat felt dry. Her eyes burned. Then—
A paper slipped from Zion’s scattered things.
Tobi picked it up automatically.
Black and white. Cheap paper.
A photo.
Tobi’s heart stuttered.
It was her. Laughing. Sitting beside someone in a hoodie. Face turned away.
She didn’t recognize the place. Or the person.
The timestamp: two months ago.
The day she started writing Erased.
She flipped the photo.
In black ink:
“Do you remember now?”
Zion leaned closer. “Why do you have that?”
“I don’t,” Tobi whispered. “You do.”
“I found it in my locker. Thought you planted it.”
Tobi shook her head.
Zion’s voice was quiet. “Then… who’s that beside you?”
Tobi stared at the photo again.
She didn’t know.
And for the first time— she was certain this wasn’t paranoia.
It was a pattern. And she was not the only hand holding the pen.
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