Chapter 4
Her
Ryan's side of the bed is empty and cold, the sheets rumpled where he must have gotten up hours earlier for work. I throw off the covers and stumble to the bathroom, my bare feet slapping against the floor as if that noise alone will make up for lost time.
The mirror shows a mess. Copper strands spill around my face in tangled waves from a restless night. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my light eyes, making me look like I’ve aged ten years overnight.
I don't have time to dwell on it, so I crank the shower hot and step under the spray, letting the water pound against my skin until some of the fog clears. Soap lathers quick over my arms and legs, and I scrub my face twice, hoping it washes away the exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin.
By the time I step out, towel-drying my hair roughly, the steam has fogged the glass, but I wipe it clear and stare at myself again, wondering how one bad night can unravel everything so completely.
I dress in a hurry, pulling on a brown shirt that buttons up loose over my chest and a pair of blue jeans that hug my hips without much fuss. Comfort matters more than style when you're already late, and this outfit feels like armor, simple enough to hide the chaos inside.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the sight stops me cold. The sink overflows with last night's dishes, plates crusted with sauce and forks tangled in a pile that Ryan clearly ignored before heading out.
A half-empty carton of eggs sits on the counter beside a plate with crumbs and streaks of dried yolk, the smell of toasted bread still lingering in the air. Proof he made himself eggs and toast, but didn’t bother with anything for me.
No note, no text, just the quiet accusation that I'm an afterthought even in the basics. My stomach growls, but anger mixes with it, a sharp twist that makes me clench my jaw as I grab my bag from the hook by the door.
The ride to St. Alden flies by in a blur of red lights and my own ragged breaths, my mind replaying the texts from yesterday like a loop I can't pause.
By the time I reached university, I sprint across the quad, my shirt sticks to my back from the effort.
Prof. Kingsley's lecture hall looms ahead, the door half-open with voices spilling out, and I slip inside just as he's mid-sentence, his voice carrying that steady rhythm that usually grounds me but today feels like another weight.
"...and that's why sensory details aren't just fluff. They're the hooks that pull readers into the character's skin." Prof. Kingsley says, pacing with a marker in hand, scribbling notes on the board about smell and touch evoking memory.
Heads turn as I edge in, the door creaking louder than it should, and heat floods my face because everyone knows I'm late, including him.
“Iris.” He says, not missing a beat. His eyes flick up at me over the rim of his glasses, that tight, polite smile already hinting at irritation. “How nice of you to join us.”
He lets the silence stretch just a little too long before adding, “Since you’ve decided to arrive now, perhaps you’d care to enlighten us, how can a single scent unravel an entire narrative thread?”
"I'm so sorry, Professor." I mutter, my voice barely above the rustle of pages as I weave to my seat in the back row. "I overslept. Won't happen again."
The class murmurs, a few stifled laughs that sting like salt in a cut, and I drop into the chair next to Maddie, who shoots me a wide-eyed look but says nothing yet.
He nods, waving it off with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Apology accepted. But let's hear it. Scent as a narrative device. Quick take."
I fumble for words, my bag thumping to the floor as I settle, but the question pulls something loose in me despite the fog.
"It's a subtle power, right? Like in Proust with the madeleine.
One whiff yanks you back to a moment you thought was buried, forcing the character to confront what they've been avoiding.
" My voice steadies as I speak, the familiar ground of writing centering me for a second, even if my heart still races from the rush.
"Precisely." Prof. Kingsley replies, tapping the board with his marker. "It grounds the abstract in the tangible. Keep that in mind for your next drafts. Make us feel the decay, not just describe it."
He turns back to the class, diving into examples from Woolf. The attention shifts away from me, a small mercy.
Maddie leans over as I unzip my bag for a notebook, her whisper urgent but soft. "Ree, you look wrecked. What happened?"
"Later." I whisper back, forcing a shrug even as relief floods me at her nearness.
But as I slide my chair in fully, something catches under my foot. A folded chit of paper, wedged against the desk leg like it was waiting for me. My fingers tremble slightly as I pick it up, unfolding it with a glance around to make sure no one's watching.
The words hit me in neat black ink. ‘I know you skipped breakfast. Here's something for you.’
My breath catches, sharp and painful, because taped to the bottom of the desk is a small wrapped sandwich. Turkey on wheat, from the canteen look, with a slice of cheese peeking out. How? Who?
The questions explode in my chest, terror blooming hot and immediate, making my skin prickle as if invisible eyes bore into me right there in the lecture hall.
I jolt upright without thinking, the chair scraping loud against the floor, and every head swivels my way, the room falling silent except for the echo of that noise.
"Iris?" Prof. Kingsley says, his voice cutting through the stares, concern etching his brow as he sets down the marker. "Everything alright back there?"
Maddie's hand grips my arm, her nails digging in just enough to ground me. "Ree? You okay?"
"I… Uh, yeah, sorry." I manage, my voice pitching high and unsteady. "Just need the washroom. Be right back."
I don't wait for permission, bolting for the door with the chit crumpled in my fist, the weight of all those eyes burning into my back like brands.
The hallway blurs as I push into the nearest bathroom, the door banging shut behind me. I lean against the sink, breaths coming in short gasps that fog the mirror.
Who is doing this? The question loops, frantic and unanswered, as I stare at my reflection. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, looking every bit the cornered animal I feel like.
The chit feels like poison in my hand, that casual, I know you skipped breakfast, slicing deeper than any threat because it's intimate, it's proof someone's watching every move, every empty moment.
I unwrap the sandwich halfway, just to confirm it's real, and the smell of bread and meat turns my stomach, bile rising sharp.
With shaking hands, I shove it all into the bin. The chit, the food, the wrapper and watch it disappear under crumpled paper towels like burying evidence. But it doesn't bury the fear. It amplifies it, a roar in my ears that drowns out the drip of the tap.
I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen as I dial 999. One call, that's all it would take. Tell them about the texts, the sandwich, the way dread has wrapped around my ribs and squeezed. My finger hovers over the call button, heart pounding so hard I swear it echoes off the tiles.
Do it, Iris. Just do it.
But before I can press, my phone buzzes in my grip, the screen lighting up with another text from that same unknown number. I swipe it open, and the words freeze me solid. ‘Involve the police, and your friends won't be safe either.’
The threat lands like a punch, casual in its cruelty, and my vision blurs as hot tears prick my eyes. Maddie. Al. Their faces flash. Her laugh at lunch, his quiet worry yesterday. And the idea of this monster reaching for them twists something deep inside me, protective and vicious.
No. I can't. The phone slips from my fingers, clattering into the sink, and I snatch it back up, thumbs flying to block the number, as if that simple swipe erases the shadow it's cast.
The bell rings then, shrill and insistent, jolting me from the spiral. I splash water on my face, pat it dry with rough paper towels that scrape my skin, and force my expression neutral before stepping out.
The hallway floods with students, chatter rising like a wave, but Maddie and Al spot me immediately, pushing through the crowd with matching frowns of worry.
“Alright, Ree. What is it?” Maddie demands as they reach me, her arm linking through mine like a lifeline. "You bolted like the building was on fire. What happened there?"
Al nods, his eyes scanning my face as if he can read the fear etched there. "Yeah, you look spooked."
I swallow hard, pasting on a smile that feels brittle and wrong, but it's all I have to deflect the concern swelling in my chest.
"It's nothing, guys. Really. I think I ate something funny at home. Bad yogurt or whatever. Hit me out of nowhere, and I just needed to... you know, handle it." The joke falls flat even to me, but I force a laugh, light and dismissive, praying they buy it.
Maddie tilts her head, not convinced, her grip tightening on my arm. "Bad yogurt? Come on, Ree. You've been off since yesterday. Tell us, we can…"
"It’s nothing." I cut in, sharper than I mean, then soften it with a squeeze of her hand. "I'm fine. Promise. Let's just get to the next class before we all flunk attendance."
Al chuckles, but it's gentle, his hand brushing my shoulder in that friendly way that eases the knot in my throat just a fraction. "Alright, tough lady. But if the yogurt rebels again, I'm staging an intervention. Yogurt police, at your service."
We walk together, their banter picking up. But my mind drifts, the fear a constant hum under my skin. The entire day stretches like that, classes blending into a haze where I nod at the right times but absorb nothing, my pen scratching meaningless doodles in the margins.
Prof. Sterling drones on about character arcs in the afternoon seminar, her voice a distant buzz as I stare at my notebook, the words ‘who is he?’ looping in my head.
Someone with access to the uni. That much is clear, slipping chits under desks like a ghost.
But how did he know about breakfast? That empty kitchen mocking me? Does that mean eyes in my house too, watching Ryan leave, noting my rush? The thought sends ice through my veins, a violation so deep it makes my skin crawl, every corner of our flat suddenly suspect.
And the police thing? How? I was alone in that bathroom, door locked, phone in my hand for seconds. Tapped? Hacked? The paranoia builds, layer by layer, until my chest aches with it, breaths shallow as I imagine whispers in the wires, shadows in the walls.
By the time the final bell rings, I feel wrung out in a way sleep never fixes. I say goodbye to Maddie and Al with a smile that feels borrowed and walk through the day like I am carrying something heavy inside my chest and wait for Ryan to pick me up.
I wait outside the uni building. My phone rests in my hand, screen dark, but my fingers keep tightening around it like I am bracing for impact.
I had blocked the number earlier, convinced that it was the right thing to do, that it was a small act of control in a situation where I have none.
For a moment, I almost believed it worked.
Then the vibration hits. It is sharp and sudden, and my stomach drops before I even look.
A new number. Of course it is. My breathing turns shallow as I open the message, already knowing I should not, already knowing I will anyway.
There is no warning, no taunting sentence to soften the blow. Just a message. Just proof.
The moment I see it, something inside me collapses. Everything I had been telling myself fractures at once. The doubts I tried to bury rise to the surface fully formed, heavy and undeniable.
I cannot cry, cannot move, or even look away. The world does not explode or go dark, but something far worse happens.