Chapter 8– Who Do You Tell When No One Believes You?

Adrian had never realized how lonely silence could be until it became all he heard in his apartment. The hum of the fridge, the occasional car horn from the street below—these were supposed to be comforting signs of normalcy. But now, they sounded like background noise in a horror film, the quiet before something awful happened.

He sat on the edge of his couch, his phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through contacts. He could call Riley—except she’d been unreachable for days. He could call the police—except what would he tell them? “A man I barely know keeps showing up in my life, giving me things, and I think he’s in my apartment sometimes.” They’d file it under romantic misunderstandings or overactive imagination.

The truth was… no one had believed him so far.

The night before, Adrian had shown the doorman the strange flowers that kept appearing on his doorstep—white roses, their stems cut at the exact same angle, the same number every time. The man had shrugged and said, “Maybe you have an admirer. Could be worse.”

Could be worse. The phrase had echoed in his head all night.

He hadn’t told anyone about the latest incident—the one where his sketchbook, the one he kept hidden under a pile of clothes in his closet, had been left open on his kitchen counter. The page showed a half-finished portrait of Evan. He didn’t remember ever showing it to him. He didn’t even remember drawing the details so precisely. The shade of green in the eyes, the faint scar under the jawline—it was as if someone had been guiding his hand.

By morning, he was sitting at a café, fingers clenched around his coffee cup, eyes darting to the door every time it opened. That’s when he appeared—Evan, dressed in a black turtleneck and grey coat, looking as if he’d stepped out of a winter fashion magazine.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Evan said, sliding into the seat across from him without asking. His voice was soft, almost concerned, but his gaze was unwavering—watching, measuring.

“I’m fine,” Adrian muttered, though his voice betrayed him.

“Liar.” Evan’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re scared. And everyone thinks you’re being dramatic.”

The words sent a chill down Adrian’s spine. How did he always know?

“Maybe you should… stop showing up everywhere I go,” Adrian said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

Evan tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. “You think I’m the problem.”

“You are the problem.”

For a moment, there was silence between them, the low hum of the café filling the space. Then Evan leaned in, his voice low enough that only Adrian could hear. “If I was the problem, Adrian… you’d already know. I’m the one keeping you safe. You think those flowers, the strange noises at night, the… things missing from your apartment—those are me? No. That’s someone else.”

Adrian froze. The rational part of his brain told him this was just another manipulation tactic, another way to keep him off balance. But another part—a smaller, frightened part—wanted to believe him.

“Why would I believe you?” Adrian whispered.

Evan sat back, his expression unreadable. “Because I haven’t hurt you. Not yet.”

The not yet hung in the air between them like a blade.

---

That night, Adrian called his older brother, Ben, the one person who had always been his protector growing up.

“Look, I think someone’s following me,” Adrian said quickly, afraid he’d lose his nerve if he hesitated. “I keep getting flowers, things in my apartment are moved, and this guy—”

“Adrian,” Ben interrupted, “you’ve always been a little… dramatic. Remember the time you thought your neighbor was spying on you because she had binoculars? She was watching birds.”

“This is different.”

“Or the time you swore someone broke into your dorm? Turned out you just forgot you left the window open.”

Adrian gripped the phone tighter, his chest tightening. “I’m telling you, this isn’t in my head.”

“Look, I’ve got a meeting in five minutes. Just… take it easy, okay?”

The call ended, leaving Adrian staring at the phone like it had betrayed him.

No one believed him. Not his brother. Not the doorman. Not anyone.

---

The next day, a package arrived. No return address, no name—just a simple black box tied with a silver ribbon. Inside was a small, antique-looking key. No note, no explanation.

He didn’t have the courage to throw it away, so he placed it on his desk. Hours later, when he returned from the bathroom, it was gone. In its place was a slip of paper with three words, written in neat, elegant handwriting:

You’re not alone.

Adrian’s breath hitched. His eyes darted around the room, searching for signs of forced entry—nothing. The lock on his door was untouched. The windows were still latched.

And then he heard it—a low, steady knock at the door.

He opened it to find Evan standing there, holding a grocery bag. “You haven’t been eating,” he said, brushing past him like he belonged there.

Adrian swallowed hard. “You can’t just—”

“Who do you tell when no one believes you?” Evan asked, his tone quiet, dangerous. “You tell me".