You were running a few minutes late as usual, your bag bouncing against your hip with each hurried step. The streets were bustling, but a bench near the park caught your eye. A phone was resting on it, screen cracked. A man was pacing nearby, glancing around, his hand fidgeting through his pockets. You stopped, considering the situation. Maybe it was his.

“Excuse me,” you called softly, drawing his attention. “Is this yours?” You held out the phone, its screen blinking with an unread message.

He froze, his eyes meeting yours with a flash of relief. A faint pink tinge spread across his cheeks as he reached for the phone. “Yes, thank you,” he mumbled, his voice low, almost shy.

You smiled politely, turned, and went on your way, dismissing the moment as a simple encounter. But it wasn’t.

The following days felt strange. At first, it was a random message, just a simple,

Hi, it’s the guy with the phone. You have a beautiful smile.

You couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected compliment. But as the messages continued, they grew unsettling.

You’re so pretty, I saw you today. You looked so cute,

the texts would say. You convinced yourself it was harmless—until one morning, you woke up to a picture of you sleeping, your phone camera’s light casting a dim glow across your face.

The heart-sinking realization hit like a ton of bricks, but you tried to ignore it, telling yourself it was probably just a freak coincidence. But then, there was another message.

I love how you sleep, so peaceful. Wish I could join you.

And that’s when you saw it: the last message from him, sent at a time when you were at work.

I’m in your closet right now, just watching.

You locked the door that evening, but your fear had already settled deep. He wasn’t just watching anymore.