Part 36
Adrian stopped sleeping.
Not because of fear, exactly — more because he refused to miss anything again.
The sunflowers sat on the counter like a dare.
He hadn't thrown them out, but he hadn't touched them either.
They were the only proof he had that someone else had crossed the line between outside and in.
He began to test his space.
He placed a strand of hair across his front door's frame — a trick he'd read about in a thriller once.
He sprinkled flour on the floor before bed.
He took photos of the room every night, comparing them pixel by pixel in the morning.
At first, nothing changed.
No prints. No shifted furniture. No proof.
Until the fifth night.
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He woke to find the strand of hair gone.
The flour smooth.
The sunflowers replaced — the same arrangement, but the vase was newer, crystal instead of glass.
A note sat beside it.
Don't be afraid of what loves you.
He read it three times, then crumpled it in his fist until the paper softened under sweat.
The words weren't violent — but they were wrong.
Too intimate. Too certain.
Someone was telling him what love meant.
Someone who thought love was control.
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By morning, Adrian's reflection looked unfamiliar — dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight, voice gone flat.
He opened his laptop, set up a small webcam by the window, and hit record.
He didn't tell anyone.
Not his manager, not the label.
If whoever it was wanted to rewrite his reality, then he would make the script first.
He'd catch them in his frame.
He left for the studio, leaving the sunflowers untouched.
He didn't see the faint reflection in the webcam lens — a silhouette near the door, waiting for him to leave, pausing just long enough to whisper something too soft for the microphone to catch.
"You'll thank me when you see what I've done."