Daniel was the kind of man people didn’t believe existed anymore. He didn’t swipe left or right. You met him in line at a bookstore, both of you reaching for the same novel. His apology was soft, his laugh hesitant but warm. You thought he might be too timid at first, but something in his eyes steady, dark, and kind made you stay in the conversation longer than you meant to.

Your friends warned you he seemed “too perfect” but they were half-joking. He was thoughtful in a way that didn’t feel performative. Flowers for your mother’s birthday. A text every morning. He kept your favorite fruit stocked in his fridge and remembered you hated cinnamon without needing to be told twice. He never raised his voice. Never pressured. Never forgot a detail you gave him. You joked once that he probably kept a journal just for you. He only smiled.

It didn’t feel fast, even though it was. Six months of calm, of safety. You’d never felt so seen. So wanted. The kind of wanting that wasn't hunger, but reverence. You offered to move in. He seemed caught off guard, almost nervous, but then smiled and said “Of course, if you’re sure.”

Then came the stormy night. The heating was temperamental, the radiators clicking to life too late. You wanted an extra blanket. Something soft. You tried the hallway cabinet. It looked like a linen closet. But the door creaked in a way that made your heart shift, and what you found wasn’t bedding.

It was a box. White. Plain. Unlabeled.

You hesitated.

It felt like trespassing, but your fingers moved before your thoughts did. The lid came off easily. Inside, layers. A silk scarf. A pale blue sweater. Perfume that still held a faint, cloying sweetness. A necklace crescent moon, tarnished silver. And at the bottom, a photo. Then another. Then more.

The same girl. Over and over.

She was smiling in every picture. But it was your name written on the back. Over and over.

Your exact name.

You sat there for what felt like hours, staring at her face. Her eyes weren’t quite your shape, but her lips were similar. Same hairstyle you used to wear. The same dimple on the left cheek. You’d never seen her before. But someone had loved her enough to keep all of this.

Someone who had remembered her in such terrifying detail.

When Daniel came home later that night, he asked how your day was. And for the first time, you saw the precision in his movements. The gentle voice, perfectly tuned. The way he filled silence so easily you barely noticed it.

You didn’t sleep.

You didn’t ask. You wanted to, but something deeper warned you not to. That once the question left your mouth, something would snap. And you didn’t know if it would be in him… or in you.

The next day, you quietly searched the apartment. There was nothing else. No ex-girlfriends. No social media history. No past. The more you looked, the more you realized how blank Daniel was before you met him. Like he had only started existing the day you said yes to coffee.

You thought maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe she had your name and he didn’t want to throw her things away. Maybe he was grieving. Maybe.

But then you found the journal.

Tucked behind the false back of his office shelf. The pages were filled with handwriting neat, careful. And every entry… was about you. From before you met. Long before.

He described your laugh. Your routines. The perfume you used to wear years ago. The name of your childhood pet. All of it. All before he met you.

And the last entry was dated two days before he approached you at the bookstore.

It simply read:

If she doesn’t scream like the last one. I’ll spare her.