"Sometimes, danger doesn't knock on your door. It watches quietly... waiting for the perfect moment to slip inside."
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After class, Aroohi and Shweta headed to their favourite ice cream parlour. Shweta, practically bouncing in excitement, looked like a five-year-old in a candy store. One could almost see drool at the corner of her mouth. Aroohi burst into laughter.

"Stop looking at me like that!" Shweta pouted, giving her a playful shove. "Let me enjoy this moment of bliss!"

Still giggling, Aroohi turned her attention to the counter. But just as she was deciding on her flavour, a cold shiver ran down her spine. It was sudden, sharp—like an unseen finger brushing across her neck. Her eyes scanned the crowd.

Nothing. Just a regular summer afternoon. Still, the feeling lingered. Heavy. Watchful.

"You picked your flavour of the day, or should I grow a beard waiting?" Shweta's voice yanked her out of the trance.

Aroohi nodded and pointed. "Cotton candy and Oreo cookies. One scoop each in the cone."

Shweta clapped. "Nice. I'll take blackcurrant and mango—double scoop in a cone as well, please. Don't judge me."

They paid and sat at a corner table. Conversation flowed easily as they chatted about the next day's plan—visiting the orphanage, picking up drawing books, candies, and little treats for the kids.

After dropping Shweta off, Aroohi went to pick up her mother from school. The afternoon sun glowed golden on the school gates as students waved cheerful goodbyes. Aroohi spotted her mom laughing with a colleague, her heart warmed.

"Maa", she waved her hand excitedly, trying to catch her attention and failing miserably.

What she didn't notice was the black car parked a few meters away. Its tinted windows hid the man inside, fingers clicking photos of her and scribbling notes into a worn leather-bound diary.

Aroohi parked her scooter and half-ran toward her mother when she collided with someone, stumbling. A firm arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her before she could fall flat.

"Oh—sorry! And thank you," she said, adjusting her kurti and brushing dust off her clothes.

"It's alright, I was in a rush too," the guy said.

Aroohi blinked. Rohit.

He looked taller and bulkier than the last time she saw him. His hair tousled, hoodie slightly oversized, and eyes darting everywhere but hers. He was her age, maybe a few months younger, and lived right next door. Their mothers had become friends after moving to the city last year. His mom had asked hers to tutor him in accounting, and since then, he had been around often, quiet, polite, always in the background.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, curious.

"Picking up my brother. You?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Mom," she replied with a grin and ruffled his hair. "See you later, Mr. Accountant."

"Hey—stop that!" Rohit protested half-heartedly, but she was already walking away. Another glance towards her, he also went towards his brother.

She reached her mom and jumped beside her with a loud "Boo!"

Her mother flinched, then promptly pulled her ear. "You'll never grow up, will you?"

"Owww! Sorry sorry! That hurts!" Aroohi giggled.

Students and teachers nearby chuckled at her antics. Aroohi's mother let go and playfully tapped her head.

"Let's go, Maa," Aroohi said, "I need to make a shopping list too. If you need anything from the market, let me know."

They rode home together, her mother rattling off items to buy while Aroohi listened and navigated the busy roads. Once home, they split up—Aroohi went to the kitchen to prep lunch and dinner while her mother got ready for her tuition batch.

An hour later, she brought tea to the room where her mom was teaching.

"Hi, everyone," she greeted the students cheerfully and left, reminding her mom about shopping plans.

She picked Shweta, and off they went—mission: shopping.

One and a half hours passed in a blur of bargaining, laughter, and filled bags with colourful pens, sketchbooks, and candies. After checking everything off their list, Aroohi turned to Shweta.

"Feel like a quick stop at the jewelry shop?"

Shweta groaned dramatically. "Ugh. Your obsession is next-level. Fine, but only because I have thirty minutes left before Mom texts me fifty times."

They parked near a quaint little shop with glittering displays. Anklets, earrings, bangles—each item caught Aroohi's eye like a magpie drawn to shiny things.

"Look at that anklet!" Aroohi squealed. "Silver and gold! And those earrings—oh my God!"

"Okay, that anklet is so you," Shweta declared.

"And this nose pin is screaming your name!" Aroohi laughed, holding up a delicate silver piece.

They laughed and teased and clicked pictures for fun. These were the kind of memories that stitched friendships together.

But not too far away, someone watched.

Not with admiration or casual interest.

No.

With obsession.

After dropping Shweta home, Aroohi was alone again. The streets were dimming with the setting sun, and as she approached a silent stretch of road, that chilling feeling returned. This time stronger.

She paused. Looked behind.

A man walked by casually.

A woman pulled her child along hurriedly.

Nothing unusual.

And yet, her heart pounded.

Brushing it off as paranoia, she hurried home and locked the gate behind her. Her chest rose and fell with the sudden rush. Still uneasy, she glanced once more toward the street. It was empty. Quiet.

Too quiet.

She told herself it was her imagination. But even after she parked her scooter and double checked the lock on the gate, the chill remained. She checked behind her—no one. She bolted inside.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," her mom joked, seeing her wide-eyed expression.

"Just scared of the dark," she lied with a forced laugh. "Let's eat, I am so hungry."

She changed the topic and went to wash her hands. They ate dinner with light-hearted banter about college crushes, tuition kids, and the never-ending rise in tomato prices. Aroohi skipped any mention of the paranoia growing in her mind.

Later that night, long after her mother had fallen asleep, Aroohi, after combing her hair and setting an alarm for the next day, lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. The darkness wasn't what scared her. It was the eyes she couldn't see — the ones that might be watching from behind a window, from a dark car, from nowhere and everywhere. Her lids grew heavy with exhaustion of the day, and slowly, she drifted off to sleep.
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But somewhere down the street, a man leaned against a lamppost, hood pulled low over his face. He hummed the tune she had unknowingly sung earlier in the day. His hand clutched a photo, slightly crumpled from being held too tightly.

"You laughed today. It was beautiful. Do you know how your hair catches sunlight like it was made for you? You're mine. You just don't know it yet. But you will."

She didn't know he was watching.
She never did.

Aroohi's shadow moved behind the curtain, fingers brushing the fabric before she turned away, vanishing into the soft glow of her bedroom light.
He exhaled. Slowly. Steadily. Like it was a ritual. Like worship.
Because watching her was sacred.

He knew the curve of her smile better than she did.
He knew how her eyes sparkled when she spoke to the kids at the orphanage.
He knew the sound of her laughter, the softness in her voice when she called her mother "Maa," and the way she clutched her scarf/ kurti when nervous.
And oh, how often she was nervous lately.

He smiled.

Fear looked good on her.

It made her more delicate. More real.
Like something that could be broken... and then pieced back together again—just for him.

His fingers clutched the edge of the old brick wall as he watched her window. She was probably brushing her hair now—he had memorized that routine, the way her fingers moved, slow and tired, each night. Sometimes, he imagined those fingers on his skin instead.

She didn't understand it yet.
She wasn't ready.
But she belonged to him.

All of her.
Her voice.
Her smile.
Her time.
Her skin.

Aroohi was his obsession. His craving. His to claim.

She had thrown her light into the world so carelessly, like she was meant for everyone.
But he had seen it first.
He had loved her first.
Long before she even knew he existed.

And no one else would get to have her.

He pulled out the small, worn notebook from his coat. Her name filled the pages. Her face was sketched in pen over and over. Scribbles of dates, places, outfits, and smiles.

One day, very soon, she would look into his eyes and realize—

She had always been his.

And if anyone dared get between them?

He would carve that mistake out of existence.

He slipped the photo and journal into his pocket and turned, whistling and disappearing into the night.

Tomorrow, he would get closer.

And no one would notice.

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Another chapter
Chaos incoming...
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Who is this stalker??
He is getting bold...
Should she tell her friend or her mother or anyone???
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