Riya didn't move for several seconds.
The note in her hand felt heavier than it should have. It was just a small piece of tracing paper, thin enough to tear with two fingers. Yet it burned against her skin like proof of something she didn't want to accept.
Her mind was racing. Someone had slipped it into her bag. Inside the studio. During class. That meant one thing: he had moved around the room at some point without her noticing.
The question was when.
Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. Twenty-eight minutes left.
The professor was still moving from desk to desk, giving short critiques. Students were getting up, grabbing materials, adjusting their models. The room was active enough that someone could walk around without standing out.
Riya replayed the last ten minutes in her head. She had stood up. Walked to the supply shelves. Looked around the studio. Grabbed tracing paper. Her bag had been hanging on her chair the whole time.
Unattended.
Her stomach tightened. Anyone near her row could have reached it. Her eyes slowly scanned the students around her; he knew she was watching him.
Her gaze moved back to the quiet boy in the second row. He looked the same as before, head slightly down, pencil moving steadily across the page. Calm. Focused. Like someone who had been drawing the entire time.
Too calm.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Looking at him again?
Her stomach dropped. She didn't move.
Riya: Should I not?
Five seconds passed.
Unknown Number: He's not the one you want.
Her eyes flicked up again. The quiet boy had paused for half a second, then he kept drawing. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
Riya: So you're watching where I'm looking.
Unknown Number: I'm watching everything.
Her chest tightened slightly. That line shouldn't have bothered her, but it did.
She looked at the students around her. To her left, a girl was frantically sanding a model. To her right, a boy was asleep with his chin on his palm. They looked normal. They looked innocent.
Then, phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Why are you looking at them? They aren't the one.
She realized everyone could be him, which made the situation impossible. Her fingers hovered above the screen. Everyone in the room suddenly felt like a suspect. Anyone could be holding a phone under the desk. Anyone could be pretending to draw.
Her patience snapped.
Riya: Why me?
The reply came almost instantly.
Unknown Number: Wrong question.
Her eyes flicked up toward the second row again. The quiet boy hadn't moved.
Unknown Number: Ask a better one.
Riya's fingers flew over the keyboard.
Riya: How did you put the note in my bag?
A pause this time. Five seconds. Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You left it alone.
Her stomach twisted. That wasn't really an answer; it was a reminder.
Unknown Number: Architects should pay attention to access points.
Her mind caught the meaning immediately. Access points. Entrances. Blind spots. Movement paths. He wasn't just teasing her; he was turning this into some kind of lesson.
Riya slowly looked around the studio again, but differently this time. She wasn't looking for a person; she was looking for movement paths.
Students moved between the desks and the shelves constantly. If someone stood up from the second row, they could pass behind her chair on the way to the supplies. For a few seconds, they would be directly behind her. Close enough to touch her bag.
Her chest felt tight again. Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: See?
She didn't reply.
Unknown Number: Not that hard.
Riya kept staring at the screen. He wanted her to feel stupid, to feel like she had missed something obvious. Her eyes drifted to the note.
Her mind moved slowly, analyzing the paper. In the studio, tracing paper was used to copy designs over old floor plans. If he had written the note during class, he could have used the same pen. But when she held the scrap up to the light, a chill ran through her.
The paper was translucent.
He hadn't just guessed her handwriting. He could have placed the sheet over one of her discarded sketches and traced it. He hadn't just written a note. He had copied her.
Riya stared at it, a new thought forming. Whoever was texting her had already proven he could reach her bag without her noticing. Which meant he might try again. So she decided to test it.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Thinking too hard again?
She ignored the message. Instead, she tore a small corner from the tracing paper roll and wrote three words: I am here.
Not perfect, but close enough.
She folded the paper and slipped it into the front pocket of her bag. If he opened it again, he would see the note and know she realized someone had touched her things. Maybe he would react. Maybe he would make a mistake.
Her heart was beating faster now, but not from fear, from focus. She thought if he had touched her bag once, he might try again.
Her phone vibrated again.
Unknown Number: Bored already?
Riya typed slowly.
Riya: Prove you're here.
Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. Finally, the screen flashed.
Unknown Number: I already did.
Riya looked at the message and shook her head slightly.
Riya: Do it again.
Across the room, the quiet boy in the second row stopped drawing. Just for a second. His pencil hovered above the paper. Then he continued.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You're getting brave.
Riya stared at the screen.
Riya: Or you're getting nervous.
A longer pause this time. Students around them continued working. The professor moved to another desk. The studio looked completely normal, but Riya felt like the air between the rows had changed. Finally, her phone vibrated again.
Unknown Number: Look under your desk.
Her heart skipped. Slowly, she leaned down. The underside of the drafting table was covered with old tape marks and pencil scratches from past students.
And something new.
A thin strip of tracing paper, taped neatly to the wood. Her stomach dropped. She pulled it off with shaking fingers. Another message was written in the same clean handwriting: Still here.
Her throat went dry. This one hadn't been in her bag. This one had been taped under her desk, which meant it had been placed there before she even arrived.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: See?
Unknown Number: I plan ahead.
Her phone vibrated one last time.
Unknown Number: Try again tomorrow. Maybe you'll see me then.
Riya stared at the screen until the letters blurred. This wasn't just a game of sight anymore. He could move around her. Touch her things. Anticipate her thoughts. And worst of all, he was enjoying it.
She closed her bag carefully and slid it closer to her body. No sudden moves now. No more bold moves. If he wanted a game, she would give him one. But next time, she wouldn't look where he expected. And she wouldn't react where he could see.
Across the room, the quiet boy in the second row finally looked up again. This time, their eyes met fully. No confusion. No accident. Just a steady, unreadable stare.
Her phone stayed silent. But she didn't need it to tell her.
He was right here. And he wasn't done.