the message

Chapter 5:

Rayyan hadn’t checked his phone in hours.

It buzzed against his nightstand as he lay staring at the ceiling. No music. No show playing. Just silence—and the sound of his own heart thudding in his chest.

He’d told himself not to think about the boy from the library.

But his mind kept going back to that smile. That promise.

“I will.”

What did that mean?

Was it a threat? A warning? A vow?

He didn’t know.

But he wanted to.

Finally, he rolled over and unlocked his phone. Just as he did, a new message popped up. No name. Just a number he didn’t recognize.

> Unknown: Do you always look that distracted when you’re alone?

**1:47 a.m._

Rayyan froze.

His blood ran cold — and then hot.

He quickly typed back:

> Rayyan: Who is this?

The reply came instantly.

> Unknown: You already know.

He stared at the screen, throat dry.

No. No way. It couldn’t be him. He never had his number, right? He never—

> Unknown: Nice plant on your windowsill. Water it more.

Rayyan jerked toward the window. Curtains drawn — but suddenly, they didn’t feel thick enough.

He stood up and pulled them shut tighter, then locked the window even though it was already locked.

His hands were shaking.

He typed again.

> Rayyan: If this is a joke, it’s not funny.

No answer.

He threw the phone on the bed, heart pounding, breath shallow. He hated how shaken he felt. Vulnerable. Seen.

But even more than that…

He hated the thrill that was crawling up his spine.

---

The next morning, Rayyan walked onto campus with headphones in and sunglasses on, hoping the world would leave him alone.

He walked past the library entrance—and stopped.

There he was.

Leaning against the wall. Hoodie down. Watching.

Zayan.

For the first time, Rayyan walked straight up to him.

"You got a lot of nerve texting me that kind of—"

Zayan looked at him, completely calm.

“I didn’t text you.”

Rayyan blinked. “What?”

“I don’t need to.” Zayan’s voice was low. Smooth. “If I want you to know something… I’ll say it to your face.”

He took one slow step closer, and Rayyan felt it again — that quiet, dangerous intensity. Not loud. Not aggressive. But firm. Inescapable.

“I don’t hide behind screens,” Zayan said. “But if someone else is watching you… I suggest you be more careful.”

He turned and walked away without another word.

Rayyan stood frozen.

So it wasn’t him?

Or was this another game?

Because when he got home that night, there was a note slipped under his door.

> You belong to me. Whether he knows it or not.Rayyan stared at the note in his hands, the edges damp from where his fingers trembled. There was no name, no signature. Just that one line — scribbled in sharp, fast handwriting like whoever wrote it couldn’t wait to finish the sentence.

He looked up. Door locked. Windows shut. Everything in its place.

Except him.

He didn’t know what was worse — that Zayan claimed it wasn’t him… or the idea that it might actually not be him.

Someone else was watching?

He sat on his bed, the paper still between his fingers. A million thoughts rushed through his mind.

Was it just a prank?

Or was he being hunted from two sides?

---

The next few days blurred together.

Rayyan barely spoke to anyone.

He skipped the library. Avoided eye contact in hallways. Walked with a hoodie pulled over his head and his phone gripped tightly in his hand.

But still… he felt it.

The stare.

Whether it was in the cafeteria line or across the courtyard — he’d look up, and Zayan would be there. Watching. Always calm. Always unreadable.

But not once did he approach.

Not even a smirk.

Until Thursday.

It was after class. Rayyan had just stepped into the art building’s empty hallway when he felt fingers wrap gently — but firmly — around his wrist.

He flinched, turning fast.

Zayan.

He said nothing. Just stared at Rayyan’s wrist where his fingers still held him. Then his gaze lifted to Rayyan’s eyes — darker than usual.

“You’ve been hiding.”

“I’ve been busy,” Rayyan snapped. “You said someone else is watching me. But how do I know it’s not just you playing games?”

Zayan’s jaw twitched. “If I were playing, you’d already be mine.”

The words hit like a spark.

“Then what are you doing?” Rayyan whispered, too aware of the warmth of Zayan’s fingers still on his skin. “You act like you want me, but you don’t do anything.”

Zayan leaned in, voice barely audible.

“I’m holding back.”

He let go.

“Because once I start… I won’t stop.”

Rayyan’s breath hitched.

Zayan took a step back, and for the first time, Rayyan noticed something in his eyes — not just control. Not just obsession. But jealousy.

“You’re not the only one who sees you,” Zayan said quietly.

“But I saw you first.”

Then he turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving Rayyan alone with his pulse racing.

---

That night, Rayyan didn’t sleep.

Because at 3:12 a.m., another message arrived.