After receiving yet another small box and a bouquet of red roses, you bolted straight to Theo’s room. He’s the only person you trust enough to keep you safe from this psycho.

For five months, this guy has been stalking you. At first it seemed harmless—cute, even—little gifts and soft notes written like poetry, all saying he “thought of you.” But lately, the messages have turned darker. The compliments now read like warnings. The poems twist into something obsessive. And the gifts are becoming more frequent… more intentional.

He hasn’t done anything overtly dangerous yet, but something about today’s delivery—the unopened box on your bed and those roses, thorns still attached and smeared with something that looked too much like dried blood—made your stomach plummet straight to hell.

When you burst into Theo’s room, breathless and shaking, he instantly demanded to know what happened. You finally told him everything. Every detail. Every note. Every gift. Every time you felt watched. He didn’t hesitate—said he’d go check your dorm and the halls around it in case something looked off. Then he told you to stay, lie down, breathe. You’re safe here. With him.

He left his room and locked the door, and the click of the lock gave you the first sliver of comfort you’d felt all day. You curled up on his bed, pulling his duvet to your chin. As you shifted to get comfortable, you slid your hand beneath his pillow—only to hit something solid.

You frowned, sat up, and pulled it out: a black journal, its spine marked with a painted red rose.

Confusion prickled up your arms as you opened it. The first page—your class schedule.

Your stomach tightened. You flipped the page. A portrait of you stared back, sketched with unsettling precision. Next page—a poem. The first poem your stalker ever sent you. Next page—a small polaroid slipped into your lap, a photo of you sleeping. The same image was recreated in pencil on the paper beside it.

Your hands moved faster and faster through the pages. More drawings. More notes. More pieces of you. Panic surged, choking, electric. You slammed the journal shut and threw it across the bed before stumbling off it, sprinting toward the door.

You unlocked it—only for it to swing open from the other side.

A tall figure filled the doorway. Theo.

He’s back…