"Feels like I was stalking guys all day long," Sara sighed.
The sun was already lowering behind the buildings, dragging a darker shade across the street. Yet Sara was still here, standing in front of the Everain house, hands cold around her phone. She didn't feel like checking the place… but that uncomfortable pull in her chest wouldn't let her walk away.
She stepped closer to the door. Her hand moved automatically toward the alarm panel on the right. She pressed the button.
Nothing.
No chime, no click, no sign the system was even alive.
Her fingers loosened. She let her hand fall and reached for the door handle. She paused halfway. Something prickled along her neck. A small, sharp instinct.
Someone was watching her.
She didn't know from where or for how long.
She turned her head sharply, scanning the quiet street. Empty sidewalk. Cars parked at angles. Curtains drawn in the windows across the road. Nothing obvious.
Still, the feeling stuck to her spine.
"Imagining things," she whispered.
She pushed the door. The hinge let out a long, tired creak. She pushed again, harder, and the door opened a little more, inch by inch.
"Why's everyone leaving their doors open like this…"
...
"Why is it locked?" Paul muttered to himself.
He stood at his own door, staring at it with a flat, worn-out expression. Someone had come by. Someone had touched the handle. Someone had tried to enter.
He could tell from the way the metal felt.
But who it was, and why, hardly mattered to him anymore.
"I should ask the guard."
He removed his hand from the knob and turned. His steps carried him toward the elevator, each one sounding sharper than the last in the quiet hallway. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, almost in warning, almost alive.
He walked into the elevator. The air inside was cold and stale, washed with the smell of metal and something disinfectant-like. The button for the ground floor lit up beneath his thumb.
The doors closed slowly, like they were thinking about it first.
When they slid open again, he stepped out into the lobby. His eyes swept across the space. The emptiness had weight. The kind that pressed against the ears until every sound felt distant.
Then he saw. Near the entrance.
The guard.
"Perfect… there he is," Paul murmured.
He raised a hand and picked up his pace. The guard noticed the gesture and stopped walking, posture straightening in a practiced way.
"What's the matter?" the guard asked.
"I dropped my key somewhere," Paul said. "Could you help me out?"
The guard watched him quietly, eyes running a slow scan up and down Paul's frame. Then he nodded once.
"Yeah."
Paul returned a faint nod. They walked back toward the elevator together, the silence between them neither friendly nor strained.
The elevator doors closed behind them.
They stood without speaking, without shifting. Only the soft mechanical clatter of the lift breaking through the stillness.
Fourth floor.
The doors opened. They walked to Room 404. The guard stopped, took out a small ring of keys, found the right one, and unlocked the door with a clean metallic click.
Paul nodded again. The guard stepped back and left without a word, footsteps fading down the hall.
Paul stood in the doorway. The apartment was still.
He placed a hand lightly on the frame.
Something felt different. Something felt wrong.
And for the first time that day, the silence inside the room felt like it was watching him back.
Varsha finished dinner, pushing her chair back with a dull scrape. She walked toward the balcony, letting the night wind hit her face. Curtains brushed her shoulders, the fabric cold against her skin. She rubbed her arms, breathed out slowly.
Then she heard it.
"I think we should meet."
Paul's voice.
Her foot froze mid-step. She stayed behind the curtain, silent, unseen.
"You sure you wanna talk about it over the phone alone?"
Talking to someone.
Who?
Why should she care?
I don't.
She still didn't move.
"Yeah. After school. Three o'clock."
Silence returned.
Varsha stepped out of the curtain, acting as if she'd just arrived. "12 o'clock."
Paul turned immediately, eyes sharp, searching for something in her tone. "Why?"
She placed her hands on the railing.
"There was an announcement today. Exams are close. Intermediate classes end early from tomorrow."
"I see." Paul typed something on his phone, sent it, and went quiet again.
Varsha tried to find something, anything to start with. "Why didn't you come today?"
"Didn't feel like it."
"Yeah." Her voice didn't hide the judgment. "That track. But still… you should start focusing on studies."
"I'll manage."
"You'll manage," she repeated, dry. "You talk like someone who doesn't give a rat's ass about school. Like it's all just useless noise."
"More or less. Though it's not useless. For you. Or others."
She turned to him with a frown.
"What's that supposed to mean? You're also in school. You study the same crap we do. Future career—same shit applies to you."
"But it isn't for me," Paul said.
"Not for you?" Varsha's brows lifted. "What's that even mean?"
"Exactly how it sounds. I'm not planning to build a future out of this."
"So what, you got some grand plan hidden somewhere?"
"I'm thinking about it."
Varsha clapped her hands once, mocking.
"Great. Thinking. That's gonna get you far."
Paul watched her. "So that's how you see me?"
"No. I didn't mean—" She stopped. Then shrugged bluntly. "But yeah. That is who you are, isn't it?"
"Maybe."
"See?" Varsha said. "That. That indecisive crap. You act like you don't even know what you're doing with your own life."
"I know."
"Oh, wow. Look at that. You know." She leaned on the railing. "Then why act like nothing matters? Like you're above all this?"
"I think it's a waste of time and effort."
"And why's that?"
"I'll be gone soon. So it doesn't matter if anyone notices me. Or if I build relationships that will eventually be severed."
Varsha stared at him. "You're saying… what? You're transferring schools?"
"You can say that."
She snorted. "Then why waste time talking to me?"
"Talking to you isn't a waste."
"That's the biggest bullshit I've heard today."
She sighed with annoyance in her face. "Everything means something. Talking. School. People. It all matters."
"I know."
"Then why act like it doesn't? Why talk about disappearing like you're some tragic poet? Do you even know why you exist?"
Paul didn't answer immediately. Then quietly he said. "Figuring it out."
Varsha shook her head. "Then why even go to school?"
"Because it's necessary."
"Necessary…" She let out a tired breath. "I swear, sometimes I feel like I'll lose my damn mind talking to you."
"Then stop," Paul said. "While you can."
"Maybe I will. Who knows."
But as she turned away, her heart ticked. Annoyingly aware.
She didn't enjoy talking to him. She didn't look forward to it. She didn't care.
And yet… every time he was near, her mouth moved before her brain did. Every reaction felt sharper. Every silence felt heavier.
She hated that she noticed him. She hated that she couldn't not notice him.
And she hated it more than anything
that he made it look like none of it mattered.
Varsha shut her bedroom door with her heel, harder than she intended. The click echoed louder in the quiet room.
She tossed her phone on the bed. It bounced once, landed face-down.
Good. She didn't wanna see it anyway.
She walked to her desk, pulled the chair back, sat, then immediately stood up again.
Couldn't sit still.
Her chest felt… restless. Annoyingly restless.
"What the hell was that," she muttered to herself.
She paced once across the room, turned, paced back.
"'I'll be gone soon,'" she mimicked under her breath, voice dripping with disdain.
"Who the hell talks like that? What is he, some discount movie protagonist?"
She raked her hand through her hair.
"And why did I even ask him all that? 'Why do you exist?' Are you stupid? Who asks that? Who says that?"
She walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside. The night outside looked calm but
She wasn't.
Her forehead lightly tapped the glass.
"It's not like I care," she said to her reflection.
It didn't believe her.
She pushed off from the window and paced again.
"He doesn't even answer properly. Just… blank face, blank voice, blank everything. Like talking to a wall with opinions."
Her palms dug into her hips.
"And then—'Talking to you isn't a waste.' What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Is that supposed to be… what? A compliment? An apology? A joke? What?"
She grabbed her phone from the bed, stared at the black screen. She didn't turn it on.
"Stupid. Why are you even thinking about this? He's gonna transfer or vanish or whatever he means. It's not your problem."
A beat.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"But… if he's really going, why say it like that? Why say it to me? Why even talk to me at all? He barely talks to anyone."
She sat on the edge of the bed, dropping the phone beside her. Her leg bounced. She couldn't stop it.
"You're being dramatic," she told herself.
"You're reading too much."
"You're overthinking."
Her voice softened, like a confession she didn't want to admit:
"…But something's off with him."
She picked up the phone again, turning it over in her hands.
"Something's definitely off."
A long silence settled over her room.
Then, softer, almost under her breath:
"…And I hate to say it but.. I know ."
She placed the phone face-down again and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Whatever. Not my business. He can do whatever the hell he wants."
But the ceiling heard the truth she didn't say aloud:
You better not disappear without telling me, asshole.