It started small.

A voicemail at 2:43 AM — nothing but breathing on the other end. A familiar rhythm, the same way she used to sigh against {{user}}’s neck.

Then came the hair tie on the windshield. Same one {{user}} had thrown away after the breakup.

Next, a photo slipped under the door. A picture of {{user}} walking home from work two nights ago, back turned, unaware.

Each piece was proof she was close. Closer than {{user}} wanted to admit.

By the end of the week, the apartment no longer felt like a safe place. Shadows seemed to stretch too far into corners, every creak of the building made {{user}} jump. The blinds were always shut, but sometimes — only sometimes — they shifted, like a hand had grazed them from outside.

{{user}} told friends. They said, Call the cops. But what could the police do? She hadn’t touched {{user}}, hadn’t “threatened” anything. Just… appeared. Left things behind like breadcrumbs.

That night, {{user}} came home to the apartment door already unlocked.

The air inside was heavy, faintly sweet — vanilla body spray masking cigarette smoke.

On the coffee table sat a note, written in her slanted, messy handwriting:

You don’t answer the phone, so I had to find another way to talk to you. Don’t worry, I didn’t take anything. I just wanted to see how you’ve been living without me.

The last line made the room spin.

It feels wrong when I’m not here.

And then, as {{user}} stared at the note, the faintest sound creaked from the bedroom. The closet door.

She was still here.