That night, Siyara couldn't sleep.

The black rose sat on her bedside table, almost alive in the dark. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured Aarav's hand setting it there, his eyes fixed on her as if claiming her without a word. She hated herself for thinking about it-for thinking about him-but the thoughts came anyway, curling through her mind like smoke she couldn't escape.

Her phone rested on the pillow beside her. The last call was still there in her history. Unknown Number.

For a moment, she almost pressed it, just to hear his voice again. The thought chilled her, but the pull was still there.

Instead, she sat up and hugged her knees, the moonlight sliding through the curtains in pale silver streaks.

That's when she noticed it. A shadow moved outside.

Her whole body went still. This wasn't wind. It wasn't headlights. It was too slow, too deliberate. Watching.

Her pulse hammered in her ribs. Every instinct screamed to pull the curtains closed, to lock herself in her room and pretend she hadn't seen a thing. But something deeper-reckless, unwanted-made her stand. Step closer.

Her breath fogged the glass as she leaned toward it.

At first, there was nothing. Just the quiet street below, the restless sway of the trees. Then her eyes found him.

Aarav.

Leaning against the wall across the narrow lane, hands in his pockets. The streetlight caught half his face, throwing the other half into shadow. Even from that distance, his gaze locked on hers.

Her hand tightened around the curtain, torn between slamming it shut or throwing the door open to scream at him.

But she didn't move.

Not until he did.

One step forward. Then another.

He didn't need to speak, didn't need to touch her. His presence alone filled the night air, heavy, unsettling, impossible to ignore.

Her heart lurched. She yanked the curtain shut and stumbled back like she'd touched fire.

When she dared to peek again, the street was empty. He was gone.

But she knew better.

This wasn't the end. It was only the start.

That night, she locked everything - every window, every bolt, even the latch on her bedroom door. Still, sleep never came. The sound of her own breathing felt too loud in the dark, and the ticking clock on the wall cut through the silence like a blade.

Then she heard it.

A faint scrape.

A slow drag right across the glass of her window.

She sat up instantly, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her eyes fixed on the pale spill of moonlight across the curtains.

The sound came again.

Like fingertips sliding over the glass.

Her body locked up. She didn't move. She barely breathed.

Seconds blurred into minutes, maybe longer. Then silence returned. But her heartbeat never slowed. Not until morning.

---

The next day, she forced herself to go to the art workshop. She told herself being around people would help. That the daylight would chase away the night.

But when she reached her desk, she froze.

On top of her canvas sat a small silver chain with a heart-shaped pendant. It wasn't hers. She'd never owned anything like it.

Beside it lay a scrap of paper.

You forgot this last time. I kept it for you.

Her hands shook as she picked it up. The chain was ice-cold, the pendant spinning slowly between her fingers, catching the light in a way that made her stomach twist.

There was no last time. She hadn't forgotten anything.

He was leaving things now. Slipping them into her life.

Making her question her own memory.

-------

That evening, Siyara didn't go near the balcony. She kept her eyes away from it, telling herself that looking out - searching for him - would only give him what he wanted.

But around nine, her phone buzzed.

A message. From an unknown number.

Red suits you.

Her stomach dropped. She looked down at herself - a plain red cotton kurta.

Her skin prickled. He wasn't just watching. He was watching now.

She rushed to the balcony, yanked the curtains closed, and stepped back until her shoulders hit the wall. Her mind wouldn't stop repeating the same question:

How much closer will he get?

---

The answer came sooner than she expected.

Two days later, on her way back from the grocery shop, she felt it again - that unmistakable weight, like someone's eyes pressing into her back.

She turned sharply.

There he was.

Standing at the corner of the street. Still. Silent. Watching.

Her heart pounded, but she didn't run. She forced herself to keep walking, though each step felt heavy, like moving through water.

By the time she reached her front door, she spun around for one last look.

He was gone.

---

The black rose still sat on her desk. She couldn't throw it away. Its petals had begun to curl inward, but the impossible blackness of them remained, like they had been carved out of shadow itself.

Every time she thought about tossing it into the trash, her chest tightened. She would picture him - not just watching, but knowing.

And in her head, she could almost hear him whisper:

I'll know if you do it.

That thought was enough to keep the rose exactly where it was.

Untouched. Waiting.

---

She started dreaming of escape. Not just walking away, not just hiding in a busier part of the city - but running far, so far that even if he turned and searched, she would already be gone.

Her mind clung to that thought like a lifeline.

Somewhere else. Somewhere he isn't.

So when the email arrived - an invitation from an international gallery to showcase her work - her breath caught. The words felt unreal, almost like a mistake. They had seen her last series, they said. They wanted her there, in person, for the opening.

Her first reaction was joy.

Her second was relief.

And her third, a whisper she didn't dare say out loud: He can't follow me there.

---

She mentioned it over breakfast. The smell of cardamom tea and hot puris filled the kitchen, sunlight pouring across the table. Her parents sat across from her, and every tick of the wall clock felt like it was pushing her toward the truth.

"There's an art gallery abroad," she began, trying to sound casual. "They invited me to attend for a few days. I... I think it could be important for my career."

Her mother's hands stilled over the puri she was folding.

"Alone?"

Siyara nodded quickly. "Just a short trip. And... honestly, I think it'll be good for me. A change of air."

Her father studied her quietly, that same look he used to give her when she insisted she was fine after scraping her knee as a child.

"Maybe it will help you," he said slowly. "See things differently. Yes... maybe you should go."

Relief spread through her chest so fast it almost made her dizzy. They didn't question too much. They didn't ask why she wanted to go alone. They couldn't see the shadow she carried with her everywhere.

---

The airport was alive with the smell of coffee, perfume, and the steady hum of travelers moving with purpose. For once, she welcomed the anonymity. She moved through the crowd quickly, scanning faces, half-expecting - half-dreading - to see him among them.

But she didn't.

Not at check-in.

Not at security.

Not at the gate.

When she finally settled into her seat on the plane, she pressed her forehead against the window and let out the first deep breath she'd taken in weeks. Below her, the city shrank into clusters of light.

Her chest loosened as the plane lifted higher.

He's not here.

She held on to that thought like a prayer, watching as the clouds swallowed everything she was trying to leave behind.

The city she landed in felt different. Softer, quieter, almost polite in its chaos. The streets were washed clean, the air faintly scented with rain on stone. Her taxi wound through narrow lanes until it stopped in front of a small hotel near the gallery. Inside, the lobby was warm, filled with fresh flowers that seemed to promise peace.

Her first day slipped by in a blur - sketching strangers in the park, sipping bitter coffee in tucked-away cafés, wandering streets where no one knew her name. For the first time in months, she didn't glance over her shoulder every few steps. That night, she fell asleep without dragging a chair in front of the door. And for once, she woke to morning light instead of her own panicked heartbeat.

The second evening brought the opening ceremony.

The gallery was all whitewashed walls and polished wood floors, the kind of place that turned every footstep into an echo. Siyara wore a simple black dress, her hair loosely pinned, her favorite silver earrings catching the light. She hadn't dared wear them in weeks.

The room buzzed with voices. Critics, artists, collectors - glasses clinked softly, laughter rippled. Siyara smiled politely, speaking with an older painter who reminded her of a kind uncle.

Then it happened.

That shift in the air.

The invisible pull.

Her skin prickled as though the temperature had dropped.

She turned.

And saw him.

Aarav.

Leaning against the wall near the entrance, dressed in a dark suit, his hair tousled by some unseen wind. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. His gaze found her across the room and held - not as if he were seeing her, but as if he were already claiming her.

Her breath caught. She turned back to the painter, nodding as though she'd heard a question. She even forced a small laugh. But her pulse was wild, her body wired to his presence. She told herself not to look again. She failed.

He hadn't moved. He didn't need to. Still there. Still watching.

Siyara left earlier than planned, citing exhaustion. Her heels struck the pavement too loudly, too quickly, as she hurried back to the hotel. Relief came only when she reached her door - and then shattered.

On her bed lay a bouquet of black roses. Their scent was heavy, suffocating. A white card rested on top.

Did you think I wouldn't come?

Her hands shook as she set it down, stumbling back until her legs hit the desk. Distance meant nothing. Oceans meant nothing. He had followed.

---

The next morning, she tried to convince herself it wasn't real. She had imagined it. He couldn't possibly be here.

Until she stepped out of the hotel.

Across the street, leaning casually against a lamppost, hands in his pockets - Aarav. Watching. No smile. No wave. Just the weight of his gaze pinning her to the ground.

She ducked into a café. He didn't follow. But an hour later, when she stepped back out, he was still there. Still waiting.

That was the moment she knew.

There was nowhere to run.

---

She cut her trip short, lying about a family emergency. She packed fast, avoiding the windows, her heart pounding through every step of airport security. The flight home felt endless, her thoughts roaring louder than the engines.

And when she finally stepped inside her parents' house, she didn't wait.

"I want to marry Varun," she blurted, her voice trembling but firm. "Today. This evening."

Her mother froze.

"Siyara... what-"

"Please. Just do it. Call them. Arrange it. If I wait... I'll lose my nerve. And I can't wait."

Her father started to question her, then stopped when he saw her eyes.

They didn't understand yet.

They

didn't know this wasn't about love.

It was about survival.

She wasn't running toward Varun.

She was running away from Aarav.

---

I crossed oceans to escape him... but he was the tide.

No matter where I ran, he followed.