Elena hadn't spoken much that week. not to Liam, not even to herself. Something inside her felt quiet—like a silence that wasn't peaceful, but hollow. She went through the motions: school, work, sleep. Repeat.
But her thoughts stayed fixed on one thing.
Him.
Not that she had a name. Or a face. Or anything real.
Just... a feeling.
The same feeling that wrapped around her spine when the streetlamps flickered behind her. The same sense that made her turn around in a crowd, certain someone had just vanished before she could see them.
And now, the debt was gone.
Her loan.
Paid in full.
Elena wasn't rich. She had worked two part-time jobs just to stay afloat. And yet, when she logged into her account the second time, the zeroes were still there. Clear. Cold.
She had called the office.
They said someone had anonymously covered it.
No name. No details.
Just... paid.
It didn't feel like a mistake.
It felt like him.
That night, as she sat in the campus café grading papers, her fingers kept twitching. She wasn't reading anymore—just pretending to. Her thoughts kept slipping back to him. To the way she almost saw him that day by the abandoned hallway.
To the way it made her feel watched—but not afraid.
Watched like she mattered.
Her eyes drifted to the door every few minutes, scanning faces she didn't care about.
"Expecting someone?" Liam asked suddenly, sliding into the seat beside her with his usual lazy smile.
She blinked. "What? No. I—no."
Liam raised an eyebrow. "You've been staring at that door like you're waiting for a ghost."
She forced a chuckle. "Maybe I am."
He leaned closer, voice dropping. "You okay?"
Elena hesitated.
Then she lied. "Yeah. Just tired."
Liam didn't push. He just sat there, watching her sip her drink in silence.
Eventually, he got up and left.
And Elena was alone again.
Later that evening, back in her apartment, she opened the small envelope the café manager had handed her earlier.
A tip. That's what they said.
Elena never got tips.
Not big ones, anyway.
But this?
It was a crisp note tucked inside a folded receipt from last week—her receipt. For her coffee. Same order. Same time.
On the back of it, in neat, firm handwriting:
> "You don't owe anyone anything. Not anymore."
Her hand trembled slightly.
It wasn't signed.
But she knew.
Knew it was him.
Tears burned in her throat. Not out of fear—but frustration. Confusion. Hope.
She didn't understand why he was doing this—why someone who wouldn't speak to her, or show himself, was still trying to make her feel safe.
Seen.
Wanted.
Her chest ached.
Elena tucked the note inside her journal, folded tightly between pages filled with questions she couldn't ask out loud.
She walked to her window. Looked out.
Nothing.
But her heart still beat faster.
Because even in his silence... he was loud.
Even in his absence... she felt him.
And deep down, she began to wonder—
Was this what obsession felt like?
Or was it something worse?
Or maybe... maybe it was already too late to ask.