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A D E L I N E

Mornings were my slowest time of day.

No matter how many times I promised myself I’d wake up early and get straight to work, I always ended up doing exactly this—lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and ignoring my alarm until it finally gave up on me.

The golden glow of the morning sun peeked through the curtains, casting soft lines across the sheets. I stretched, groaning as my muscles protested, my limbs still heavy with sleep.

Another late night writing. Or trying to.

With a sigh, I finally pushed the blankets off and sat up, running a hand through my tangled hair. My apartment was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made me hyperaware of my own breathing. Living alone had its perks—no one to nag me about my sleep schedule, no forced conversations before I’d had my coffee. But some mornings, the quiet pressed in too much, making the space feel emptier than it should.

Coffee first. Then I could start my day.

I shuffled into the kitchen, my oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder as I fumbled for the coffee maker. The rich scent filled the air within seconds, comforting in its familiarity. I leaned against the counter, staring at nothing in particular while I waited.

My mind flickered to my unfinished manuscript, the same one I’d been struggling with for weeks. Writer’s block was kicking my ass, and I was running out of excuses to avoid it.

I grabbed my coffee and settled onto the couch, pulling my laptop onto my lap. The blank document blinked at me, the cursor pulsing like an impatient heartbeat.

Nothing.

I drummed my fingers against the keyboard, willing the words to come.

Still nothing.

With a frustrated sigh, I slammed the laptop shut and grabbed my phone instead. A few minutes of scrolling wouldn’t kill me.

Except a few minutes turned into thirty. Maybe forty.

By the time I forced myself to put my phone down, my coffee was cold, and my motivation was nonexistent.

I needed a break.

Yawning, I stood up, stretching again before deciding fresh air might help. I made my way to the door, unlocking it out of habit. As I pulled it open, my breath caught in my throat.

A single red rose lay on the floor just outside my door.

I stared at it, my pulse skipping.

No note. No sign of who had left it.

Just a perfectly bloomed rose, waiting for me.

A strange chill crept up my spine.

I hadn’t heard anyone knock. Hadn’t heard footsteps in the hall.

Swallowing, I bent down slowly, picking it up with hesitant fingers. The petals were impossibly soft, the scent faint but unmistakable.

I turned my head, glancing down the empty hallway. The silence suddenly felt heavier, like the walls were closing in just a little.

Shaking off the unease curling in my stomach, I stepped back inside and shut the door, locking it with an extra click for good measure.

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe someone left it at the wrong door.

Or maybe someone wanted me to know they had been here.

I placed the rose on the kitchen counter, staring at it for a moment longer before exhaling. I refused to let myself spiral over something so small.

Instead, I pushed the thought aside and focused on something far less concerning.

Daya was coming over soon. And if there was anyone who could distract me from my own overthinking, it was her.

I had just started cleaning up my coffee mug when my phone buzzed on the counter.

Mom.

I hesitated before answering.

"Hello?" I said, leaning against the counter.

"Addie, sweetheart! I was just thinking about you," my mother’s warm voice filled my ear. "It’s been a while since we saw you. When are you coming to visit?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, already knowing where this was going. "Mom, it hasn’t been that long."

"Two weeks is long enough," she huffed. "You barely call. Your father’s convinced you’ve been kidnapped."

I rolled my eyes. "If I were kidnapped, I think my captor would be better at answering texts than me."

"Not funny, Adeline," she scolded, but I could hear the amusement in her voice.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. I did miss them, but the thought of going home always left me feeling… restless. There was something about being in that house that made me feel like I was stuck in time, a younger version of myself with no control.

"I’ll try to come by soon," I said, knowing it was vague enough to get her off my back for now.

"Try?" she repeated, unimpressed.

"I will come by," I corrected with a dramatic sigh.

"Good. I’ll hold you to that."

I was about to reply when the sound of my front door opening made me turn.

"Addie! I bring gifts of wine and judgment!"

Daya.

I barely had time to react before she strolled into the apartment like she owned the place, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and a mischievous grin on her face.

I shook my head, stifling a laugh. "Mom, I have to go. Daya just broke into my apartment again."

"I heard that," Daya called out.

My mother chuckled. "Tell her to behave. And don’t forget about visiting."

"Yeah, yeah. Love you."

"Love you too, sweetheart."

I ended the call just as Daya plopped onto my couch, kicking her feet up like she’d been here for hours.

"So," she drawled, inspecting her nails. "Who was that? Secret boyfriend?"

I snorted. "My mom. But thanks for assuming I have a secret life."

She gasped dramatically. "Wait—do you not? That’s embarrassing for you."

I rolled my eyes, walking over and snatching the wine bottle from her lap. "Shut up and pour us a drink."

She grinned. "Now you’re speaking my language."

As she grabbed the glasses, I glanced at the rose still sitting on the counter.

I hadn't told my mother about it. I wouldn't tell Daya either.

Something about it felt... personal.

Or maybe, someone wanted it to feel that way.

Either way, I wasn’t about to let it ruin my night.

Daya poured the wine like she was a professional, swirling it in the glass before handing it to me with an exaggerated flourish. "To your non-existent love life and my eternal wisdom," she declared.

I clinked my glass against hers. "To your massive ego and my patience for putting up with it."

She smirked before taking a sip.

We settled onto the couch, the TV droning in the background as Daya scrolled through the endless stream of reality shows. "Okay, hear me out. Trashy dating shows are an art form," she said, pointing at the screen.

I raised an eyebrow. "I’m pretty sure they’re an insult to humanity."

"That is the art," she said, eyes gleaming. "It’s a disaster, but you can't look away."

She pressed play before I could argue, and within ten minutes, I was hooked. I’d never admit it, but watching people ruin their own relationships in real time was weirdly entertaining.

"See?" Daya smirked, catching my expression. "You're already invested."

I groaned. "Shut up."

An hour passed between episodes, wine, and mindless gossip. It was nice—easy. Like nothing in my life was complicated. Like there wasn’t a rose sitting on my kitchen counter with no explanation.

Then Daya sat up abruptly, narrowing her eyes.

I tensed. "What?"

She pointed past me. "Is that a rose?"

My stomach tightened.

I turned my head just slightly, my gaze flickering to the deep red petals resting on the counter.

I forced a casual shrug. "Oh, that? Must’ve been left at the wrong door."

Daya gave me a look. "Must’ve? Do people regularly leave mysterious roses outside your apartment?"

I rolled my eyes. "It’s just a flower. Probably some lovesick neighbor trying to be romantic."

She studied me, like she could tell I was downplaying it. Then, mercifully, she leaned back. "If it is a lovesick neighbor, they have terrible game. No note? No name? Just a flower? Amateur."

I let out a breath, pretending to laugh. "Right? If you're going to be creepy, at least commit."

Daya raised her glass. "To properly executed creepiness."

I clinked my glass against hers again, but my fingers tightened slightly around the stem.

I didn’t know who had left the rose.

But something in my gut told me they had committed.

And they weren’t going to stop at a flower.

After Daya left, the apartment felt too quiet.

The lingering warmth of laughter and wine slowly faded, replaced by an odd stillness that pressed against my skin. I cleaned up the empty glasses, rinsing them absentmindedly before placing them in the sink. The soft hum of the fridge was the only sound in the apartment, but it wasn’t enough to push away the uneasy silence.

I glanced at the rose still sitting on the counter. Its crimson petals seemed darker now in the dim lighting, casting faint shadows that stretched along the surface.

A chill crept up my spine.

It was stupid.

It was just a flower.

Shaking off the thought, I turned off the kitchen light and made my way to the bedroom. My apartment was small, but the distance between rooms suddenly felt longer, the shadows stretching in unfamiliar ways.

As I stepped into my room, a prickle ran down the back of my neck.

The distinct feeling of being watched.

I froze.

The air felt heavier, like something unseen pressed against my skin. My heartbeat thumped in my ears, each beat loud enough to drown out the silence.

Slowly, I turned toward the window.

The curtains were drawn, but for some reason, that didn’t comfort me. I stood there for a moment, my fingers twitching at my sides, debating whether to pull them back and look outside.

I swallowed.

The unease slithered down my spine, but I forced myself to move, to shake off the ridiculous paranoia.

No one was watching me.

I was alone.

With a deep breath, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and climbed into bed, trying to distract myself with the soft glow of the screen. Scrolling through mindless social media posts, my eyes grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion settling in.

The unease still lingered, but I let my body sink into the mattress, my thoughts blurring into the pull of sleep.

Right before I drifted off, a thought whispered through my mind.

What if I wasn’t alone?

Then darkness took over.

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