Stranger
"Who are you?"
The message hung there, glowing in the dark.
She typed it at 2:19 a.m.
He'd waited nearly three hours for it.
Not because he needed the reply — but because he wanted the vulnerability that came with it.
There's a difference between curiosity and confession.
And that question wasn't about him.
It was about her.
⸻
He didn't respond immediately.
Let the silence stretch.
Let her heart race.
Let her wonder if the message went into a void.
He watched the screen.
She paced.
She chewed her sleeve.
She hovered over the keyboard, typing something and erasing it again and again.
Then finally, she whispered to herself,
"Why do I want you to reply?"
And that was when he answered.
"Just someone who sees you."
⸻
That was the start of everything.
Not a name. Not a promise.
Just a presence.
⸻
For the next few nights, they talked in fragments.
Her:
"Do you watch everyone?"
"Or just me?"
Him:
"Only you."
Her:
"I'm not that interesting."
"Most days I just exist."
"Barely."
Him:
"Existing is already brave."
She didn't reply to that one for ten hours.
Then just one line:
"Thank you."
⸻
He gave her space. Never texted during the day.
Only after midnight — when her walls were soft and thin.
When her voice was the only sound in her room.
She told him things she hadn't written in any journal.
Not even to herself.
Like how her mother used to braid her hair while humming Nina Simone.
How she stopped liking birthdays at age 13.
How her reflection never felt like her.
He listened.
And responded like no one else ever did.
Not with clichés.
But with mirrors.
Her: "I feel empty most days."
Him: "Then let me hold what's left."
⸻
She never asked where he lived.
Or what he did.
Only things like:
"Do you think people can be broken and still be loved?"
"Do you think silence is safer than truth?"
"Why do I feel less alone when you text?"
And he answered honestly.
Mostly.
Because truth was power.
And he needed to stay in control.
Even when he started to feel… less like a watcher and more like a participant.
⸻
One night, she sent a voice note.
Just ten seconds of silence.
But he heard it.
The weight.
The air.
The unspoken.
And he responded with something small — but dangerous.
A photo.
Of the sky.
Taken from the same café she always went to.
Captioned:
"This place looks lonelier without you in it."
She stared at the image for seventeen minutes.
Didn't ask how he got it.
Didn't ask if he'd been there.
She just replied:
"I don't know if I should be scared."
⸻
That night, she didn't cry.
For the first time in weeks, her eyes stayed dry.
She just lay there, staring at the phone like it held a secret she couldn't decide to open.
And he watched.
Softly.
Quietly.
Already imagining the next phase.
Already designing what "closer" would look like.
Because every confession was a key.
And soon, she'd unlock more than she intended.
⸻
Observer Log 04: STRANGER
• Text communication established
• Emotional dependency: increasing
• Direct voice input: initiated
• Subject unaware of full proximity
• Next objective: physical synchronicity