Riya Sharma hated nights.
Not because they were dark.But because they were quiet.Too quiet.
Quiet enough to hear every thought she didn't want to hear.Quiet enough to remind her how alone she really was.The unbearable, endless quiet that filled every corner of her small apartment once the world went to sleep.During the day, noise protected her. Conversations, traffic, lectures, deadlines—everything blurred together and kept her moving forward. But nights stripped all of that away. Nights forced her to face herself.
The ticking of the wall clock echoed through the room, louder than it had any right to be.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Riya sat on the cold floor of her room, her back resting against the edge of her bed. Sheets of tracing paper were scattered around her like fallen leaves,others abandoned midway through their creation.The faint scent of graphite lingered in the air. Her mechanical pencil remained loosely clasped between her fingers, its once-sharp tip now worn dull from hours of use.Pencil marks, eraser dust, unfinished lines.
Her architecture submission was due in six hours.
And it was still incomplete.
Her fingers ached from constant movement.The muscles in her wrist felt stiff. Her shoulders were stiff. Her eyes burned every time she blinked, dry from lack of sleep. But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. She ignored the discomfort. Architecture didn't care if she was tired. Deadlines didn't care if she was exhausted. Life didn't care if she was breaking quietly in the middle of the night.She had learned, over the past two years, that pain rarely disappeared simply because you acknowledged it. More often, it remained until you learned how to work around it.
She adjusted the tracing paper and leaned forward, forcing her trembling hand to continue the line. Precision. Control. Balance. These were things architecture demanded. Things she could still give, even when everything else in her life felt uncertain.
She glanced toward the clock again without meaning to. The glowing digits confirmed what her body already knew—it was well past the point where she should have been asleep.
Her phone lay beside her on the floor, face up. Silent.
It was always silent.
No messages. No missed calls. No notifications waiting for her attention. No one asking if she had reached home safely. No one reminding her to eat. No one caring enough to interrupt her solitude. She had stopped expecting anything from it a long time ago.
Her eyes drifted toward the wall clock.
2:11 AM.
If she was lucky, she might get four hours of sleep. Maybe less.
She leaned her head back against the edge of the bed and closed her eyes for just a moment. Hoping the gesture might offer some relief. Instead, it only made her more aware of her exhaustion. Her body begged for rest, her muscles heavy and drained. But her mind refused to cooperate. It never did. Because the moment she allowed herself to stop,Her thoughts drifted, uninvited, toward memories she spent most of her time avoiding and that memories returned.
Her father's voice.
His laughter.
The warmth of his presence that once filled every empty space in her life.
Gone.
Two years ago, everything had changed. Two years since the hospital hallway that smelled like antiseptic and loss. Two years since she had stood there, frozen and helpless, as the world she knew collapsed silently around her.
Two years since she had become alone.Her throat tightened at the memory. She swallowed hard, forcing the emotion back down where it belonged. There was no space for weakness. Not now. Not ever again.
She opened her eyes and forced herself to focus on the drawing in front of her. Lines. Angles. Structure. Things that obeyed rules. Things that made sense.
Things she could control.Unlike life.
Her phone buzzed suddenly.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
Riya froze.
Her heart skipped once. Then twice.
She stared at the phone, her pulse quickening. The screen lit up, its pale glow illuminating her face in the darkness.
Unknown Number.
Her brows furrowed in confusion. At 2:17 AM?
Her first instinct was simple. Spam. Wrong number. Someone drunk, maybe. Someone careless.Slowly, cautiously, she picked up the phone and unlocked it. Her fingers hesitated before opening the message.
Two words.
Are you awake?
She stared at the screen, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something that made more sense. But they didn't. They stayed there, simple and direct.Her stomach tightened slightly.
She checked the number again. It wasn't saved. There was no name. Just unfamiliar digits.
She searched her memory for any reason the number might belong to someone she knew, but nothing surfaced.This didn't concern her, she told herself. It couldn't. Her first thought was simple.Wrong number. It had to beIt was likely a mistake.Someone intending to reach another person and failing. She locked the phone and placed it back on the floor.
Why would someone message at this hour?
Maybe drunk. Maybe mistake. Maybe nothing.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. It didn't matter. She didn't reply to unknown numbers.
She set the phone back down without responding and returned her attention to the tracing paper. Her pencil hovered above the surface, waiting for direction, but her concentration had already fractured. A subtle awareness had taken its place, drawing her attention back toward the silent phone even as she tried to ignore it.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten
Silence returned, settling into the room once more. She almost forgot about it.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, her reaction was instant. She grabbed it without thinking.
Another message.
You should sleep. You have submission today.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers went cold. Her stomach tightened as she read the message. The words themselves were harmless, but their accuracy unsettled her. She stared at the words, her mind struggling to process them. Her submission.
Her heart began to pound harder, faster, each beat louder than the last. Her eyes darted around the room instinctively, scanning the shadows as if expecting to find someone standing there.
But there was no one. The door was closed. The curtains were drawn. The room was exactly as it had always been. Empty. It had to be a coincidence, she told herself. Architecture students always had submissions. It wasn't unusual. But the reassurance didn't feel convincing. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She typed slowly.
Who is this?
She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the send button.
Then she stopped.
No.
Don't engage.
She deleted the text immediately and locked the phone, placing it back beside her. Her heart was beating faster now, her body tense with a strange, unfamiliar unease.Her mind working through possibilities she could neither confirm nor dismiss. She considered replying, if only to clarify the sender's identity, but hesitation stopped her. Engaging with strangers rarely led to anything worthwhile.
She placed the phone back down once more, though the unease remained.
When the phone vibrated again, the sound no longer startled her. It felt inevitable.
Don't overwork yourself.
Her breath caught.
Her chest tightened.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't coincidence.
This was intentional.
Someone knew.
Someone was watching her life close enough to know her routine.
A strange mix of fear and something else settled inside her.
Not danger.
Not exactly.
Just… presence.
She didn't know how to explain it. She stared at the number. Her fingers trembled slightly.The message was brief, but it carried an uncomfortable familiarity. She picked up the phone, her grip tighter now, and allowed herself to type a reply.
Who is this?
She hesitated only briefly before sending it.
The response arrived almost immediately.
I'm no one.
The answer provided nothing, yet it lingered in her thoughts. It was evasive in a way that suggested intention rather than confusion. She should have blocked the number. She understood that clearly. And yet, she did not.
Another message appeared.
Finish your drawing. The left corner is still incomplete.
Her blood ran cold. Her breath caught as her eyes moved instinctively to the submission sheet beside her. The corner in question remained unfinished, its lines faint and tentative compared to the rest of the structure.
She felt a sudden awareness of her surroundings, as though the apartment had shifted subtly around her. The door remained closed. The curtains were drawn securely over the window. No one could see inside. Nothing had changed.Her fingers tightened around the phone.Fear crept up her spine. Real fear. She typed quickly.
How do you know that?
The question left her before she could reconsider it. Her heart pounded in her ears.
The reply came after a brief pause.
Because I'm here.
She sat perfectly still, her gaze moving slowly across the room. Every shadow appeared deeper than before, every surface unfamiliar in its stillness. The rational part of her mind insisted that there was a reasonable explanation, one she had not yet identified. But rationality did little to calm the unease settling inside her chest.
She typed one final question.
Where?
No response followed.
The phone remained silent, its screen dark once again. Whatever presence had existed moments earlier had withdrawn without explanation, leaving her alone with the echo of its absence.That silence returned.But now it was different. Now it was alive.
She remained awake for the rest of the night, though she accomplished little more work. Her attention drifted constantly, pulled toward the phone even when it showed no sign of life. The silence had returned, but it no longer felt empty. It carried weight now, shaped by the knowledge that it could be interrupted at any moment.
For the first time in two years, someone had reached into her solitude and acknowledged her existence.
She did not yet know whether that was something to fear.
Or something far more dangerous.
Somewhere else in the city, far removed from her small apartment and its dim yellow light, a phone screen dimmed to black. Its owner remained motionless for a moment before setting it aside, his attention lingering not on the device, but on the quiet certainty that she was still awake.
He knew she would be.