There's a saying - "think twice before you wish".
Even the person who once held you like their whole world can become the reason you fear your
own shadow.
So, without wasting time... let's jump into today's story.
It was supposed to be a fresh start.
Kavya moved to Pune with two bags, a potted plant she'd named Mowgli, and a head full of
thoughts she had no plan to unpack. Delhi was done. Buried. Hopefully.
Flat 3B looked harmless enough-sunlight painted the balcony in gold, lavender from an old diffuser
clung to the air, and behind the cheap curtains, the walls wore tired cracks like quiet secrets.
The first night was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt too new.
The second night, something slipped under her door. A note.
"How long do you think you can hide?"
She froze.
Read it again. Once. Then again. Her hands stayed still. Her phone stayed in her hand, screen
black.
She didn't call anyone. Didn't scream. She just sat with the note in her lap, like it might explain itself.
Maybe it was a prank. Teenagers. Or someone from the building trying to mess with the new girl.
But the next morning, there was another.
"You changed your name. Your number. But I remember your eyes."
She dropped her tea.
The cup didn't shatter-just fell flat on the doormat. But her mind cracked open all the same.
One name. Only one person ever looked at her like that.
Aarav.
They met at a poetry night in Saket. His verse was forgettable. His eyes were not. He said he loved
how her voice curled at the end of each sentence. She said she liked the way he leaned into the
world like it owed him something.
It began with love-bombing and late-night calls. Then came the rules.
Don't go out after dark. Don't wear jeans to his house. Don't smile too much in public.
The first time he slapped her, he brought roses the next day.
Said, "You made me do it."
The third time, she disappeared.
Changed numbers. Cities. Hair. Told only her cousin.
Now, the letters meant something terrifying:
He knew.
She didn't sleep that night. Or the one after.
She double-locked the door, wedged a chair under the knob, kept a kitchen knife near her pillow-not
because it would save her, but because it gave her hands something to hold.
By the fourth night, the walls felt like they were closing in. The apartment breathed too loudly. Even
Mowgli-the plant-looked... off. Like it had tilted slightly in the night.
She asked the building guard if anyone had been around.
"No one," he said. "I watch the footage. You've been alone."
She nodded, but didn't believe a word.
The third note came with a chill.
"Red scarf. The one I bought you. You still have it?"
She didn't. It was in a dumpster by sunrise.
But something else bothered her.
She had never unpacked the scarf.
That night, she heard something. Soft. Wet. Like footsteps.
Not outside. Inside.
She crept toward the bathroom, heart thudding. Mowgli's pot was on the floor. Shattered.
A single footprint-bare, wet-on the tiles.
She didn't scream. She just backed away.
The electricity flickered once. The air felt cold, not the AC kind. The deep-in-your-teeth kind.
She started packing again.
But just as she zipped the second bag, there was a knock.
Three slow taps.
She looked through the peephole.
A woman. Mid-forties, maybe. Curly hair. Hollow cheeks. Eyes that seemed to belong to someone
who hadn't slept in years.
Kavya opened the door a crack.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry," the woman said, voice brittle. "My son... he used to live here. I didn't know someone had
moved in."
"Oh," Kavya whispered.
"I was... I was leaving letters. Just trying to talk to him. He died last year. Said the flat was haunted.
Said someone was watching him. Writing him notes. The police thought he imagined it. But I
believed him."
Kavya felt her throat tighten.
The woman-Mrs. Khanna-twisted her fingers as she spoke. "I didn't mean to scare you. I thought... if
I kept writing... maybe he'd hear me."
They sat for tea.
Mostly silence.
Mrs. Khanna said her son was an artist. Said he hated houseplants. Said they whispered.
Kavya glanced at Mowgli.
It had somehow moved. Turned a full inch toward the window. She hadn't touched it.
Mrs. Khanna touched her hand once. "Some places don't forget," she said.
Kavya stayed.
She painted the walls. Adopted a dog. Let Mrs. Khanna visit every Sunday with lukewarm samosas
and fading stories.
But at night, she still heard footsteps. Still woke with her curtains drawn when she hadn't touched
them. Sometimes, her phone showed calls from unsaved numbers at 3:47 a.m. Always the same
time.
Once, just once, she picked up.
No one spoke.
But she could hear... breathing.
She still has nightmares.
Not always about Aarav. Sometimes about wet footprints. Or the note that somehow reappeared,
months later, in her kitchen drawer.
Same handwriting.
But the paper smelled like burnt lavender.
When the past knocked again, she opened the door.
And this time, it didn't step in.
It just smiled.
And left something behind.
Thanks for reading.
This story was about how much we obsessed with someone that even there could be serval reason behind any particular thing but we stuck at only one.
All characters in this story was fictional.
Except the situation.....
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