My pulse trips. I read it again. Then again. My hands shake so hard I almost drop the phone.
I try to rationalize it. A prank. A wrong number. Someone messing around because my article made noise. Students do stupid things for attention.
No one outside this apartment should know I’m working right now. No one should know my Wi-Fi dropped. No one should know I’m sitting here alone in a quiet room with my laptop open.
Something cold spreads through my chest.
I stand abruptly and back away from my desk. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. I need to do something. I need someone to help.
I grab my phone and dial the police. My voice shakes when the operator answers.
“I… I got a message,” I say. “I think it’s threatening.”
“What does the message say, ma’am?”
I read it aloud, and yesterday’s, each word feeling heavier than the last. The operator is silent for a moment.
“That doesn’t appear to be a direct threat,” she finally says. “It could be a wrong number.”
“It isn’t.”
“Did they mention harm or specific intent?”
“No, but—”
“Then it’s likely a prank. Students receive strange messages all the time. I can create a report if you’d like, but without a threat of violence, it isn’t an immediate concern.”
The dismissal hits me harder than the text. My throat closes.
“So you’re not sending anyone?”
“It isn’t an emergency situation.”
I hang up slowly, staring at the wall. The apartment feels colder than before. My reflection in the dark window looks smaller than I expected, as if the room is swallowing me.
I grab my laptop, slam it shut, and lock it in the drawer of my desk. I turn off the lights and sit on the bed, listening to every distant horn and every footstep outside.
My mind races with questions I can’t answer. Who sent that message? How do they know what I’m doing? How long have they been watching me?
I clutch my phone in both hands and whisper to myself, quiet and certain.
“I should’ve never written that name.”
The truth is worse. I don’t know if I could’ve stopped myself even if I tried.
***
My alarm barely has time to ring before my phone buzzes again. Another email. Another notification. Another reminder that everything I did last week is catching up with me faster than I can process.
I force myself out of bed and dress quickly. My stomach twists the whole subway ride to campus. The moment I step inside the journalism building, the hallway feels colder than usual.
Students keep glancing at me, then looking away. A few whisper to each other. I keep walking.
My professor waits outside his office. He doesn’t invite me in. He closes the door behind him and folds his arms.
“Clara, we received a formal complaint,” he says. His tone is flat. Tired. “Not from a reader. From higher up.”
I blink. “Higher up where?”
