The Danger of Knowing You
2:13 A.M.
The night had a peculiar stillness—the kind that made even ordinary sounds feel suspicious.
Anwesha Suryavanshi sat near her study table, her laptop still open, though the assignment in front of her had remained untouched for the last twenty minutes. Outside her window, the streetlights spilled pale gold across the empty road below, while the curtain beside her moved slightly with the late-night wind.
At first, she ignored it.
Another vibration followed immediately.
This time, an image arrived.
Her fingers paused above the screen.
For a second, her mind refused to process what her eyes were seeing. The photograph was clear enough to show the white curtain, her half-open notebook, the glass of water near her elbow—details too intimate to be accidental.
Unknown
Close the curtain.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Her throat tightened.
Unknown
White light makes you visible.
Anwesha looked at the window instantly, heart beginning to pound against her ribs.
The road outside appeared empty.
Her fingers trembled before she typed.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Who is this?
The silence that followed was worse than the message itself.
She stood up, walked toward the window carefully, and shifted the curtain by barely an inch.
Unknown
If you keep looking outside like that, anyone would think you are frightened.
Anwesha stepped back immediately.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Are you outside my house?
This time the reply came slower.
Her pulse climbed higher.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
What do you want?
The answer unsettled her more than a threat would have.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
You took my picture.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
That is not normal.
Unknown
Neither is sitting awake every night pretending exhaustion does not exist.
She read the message twice.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
How do you know I stay awake every night?
Unknown
Because habits repeat.
Unknown
And repetition is easy to observe.
Unknown
Something cold moved through her spine.
There was no panic loud enough to become visible, only that deep quiet fear which arrives when danger speaks gently.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Tell me your name.
Long enough to feel deliberate.
She stared at the screen.
The name felt unfamiliar, yet the confidence behind it felt practiced.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
I don't know you.
Kabir Singhania
That does not reduce my awareness of you.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Are you threatening me?
Kabir Singhania
If I intended to threaten you, you would not be asking.
That answer irritated her more than it frightened her.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Then stop texting me.
Kabir Singhania
You can block this number.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
I will.
Kabir Singhania
Yet you have not.
Then another message arrived.
Kabir Singhania
Drink the water beside your notebook.
Kabir Singhania
Your headache will worsen otherwise.
Her eyes moved slowly toward the glass on the table.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
How do you know I have a headache?
Kabir Singhania
You pressed your temple four times in seven minutes.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Anwesha walked toward the door and checked the lock.
When she looked back at the phone, another message waited.
Kabir Singhania
Locked doors are useful only against ordinary intentions.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Why are you doing this?
This reply came instantly.
Kabir Singhania
Because tonight was the first time you looked truly lonely.
Kabir Singhania
And loneliness is dangerous when noticed by the wrong people.
Anwesha read the line twice.
Something about it was unsettling—
not because it sounded cruel,
but because it sounded almost careful.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
And what are you?
The reply arrived after nearly a full minute.
Kabir Singhania
That depends.
Kabir Singhania
On whether you continue replying tomorrow.
And before she could answer—
offline.
No final message.
No explanation.
Only silence again.
But now silence had acquired his name.
And somehow, the night no longer felt empty.
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He Texted Before Sunrise
Not because she tried to stay awake, but because every time her eyes closed, that photograph returned—her own window, captured from outside, as if the night itself had been watching.
By morning, the room looked ordinary again.
Too ordinary.
Sunlight entered through the same curtain that had terrified her hours ago, soft and harmless now, almost mocking what the darkness had turned it into.
Her phone remained on silent beside her pillow.
No new message.
No missed call.
Nothing.
For a moment, she wondered if the entire conversation had felt more intense simply because it happened after midnight.
But when she unlocked her phone, his name—saved nowhere, known nowhere—still sat there.
Kabir Singhania.
The messages remained exactly where she had left them.
Cold.
Deliberate.
Real.
She should block the number.
That thought came repeatedly.
Yet her thumb never moved.
Instead, she opened the chat again, reread his words, and hated the fact that each sentence still carried the same strange weight in daylight.
By afternoon, college gave her temporary distraction.
Lectures.
Assignments.
Conversations she barely followed.
Even while her friend spoke beside her in the corridor, part of her attention stayed trapped inside one thought:
How had he known she had a headache?
How long had he been watching?
And why did his words sound less like cruelty and more like observation?
Her phone vibrated just as she entered the library.
Unknown Number.
Her breath paused.
Kabir Singhania
Third shelf. Left section.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
She looked up instinctively.
Rows of books.
Silence.
Students scattered across tables.
Nothing unusual.
Kabir Singhania
Blue cover.
Kabir Singhania
Second row.
She stared for a second, then moved slowly toward the shelf.
There it was.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
She stared for a second, then moved slowly toward the shelf.
There it was.
A folded note slipped out and fell to the floor.
Her pulse climbed instantly.
She looked around.
Still no one.
She unfolded it carefully.
"Your habit of pretending calm is becoming predictable."
No signature.
No explanation.
Only handwriting—sharp, precise, controlled.
Anwesha typed immediately.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Are you here?
Her eyes moved through the library again.
Every face became suspicious.
A student near the far table.
A professor by the window.
Two girls whispering near the entrance.
None of them looked dangerous enough to sound like him.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Show yourself.
Kabir Singhania
Because curiosity suits you better before certainty ruins it.
That answer irritated her.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
This is not amusing.
Kabir Singhania
If it were amusing, your heartbeat would not have changed.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
You cannot possibly know that.
Kabir Singhania
You touched your throat before replying.
Without thinking, her hand moved away from her neck instantly.
A slow, involuntary chill crossed her skin.
He was watching now.
At this exact moment.
Somewhere inside the same library.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Why me?
This time his reply came slower.
Kabir Singhania
Because most people speak constantly.
Kabir Singhania
You carry entire storms without sound.
She read that line twice.
Something unfamiliar moved quietly beneath the fear.
Not trust.
Not comfort.
Something more dangerous—
Anwesha Suryavanshi
That does not explain anything.
Kabir Singhania
It explains enough for today.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
You don't decide that.
Before she could answer, another message arrived.
Kabir Singhania
Turn around.
Every instinct told her not to.
Yet she did.
Slowly.
The library door stood half open.
A tall figure in black stepped past it at the exact moment she turned—
visible only for a second.
Sharp shoulders.
Measured walk.
No face.
Gone before certainty could form.
Her breath caught.
She moved toward the door instantly, but by the time she reached outside, the corridor was empty.
Only fading footsteps somewhere distant.
Her phone vibrated again.
Kabir Singhania
You should not follow unfamiliar men so quickly.
Anwesha stared at the message.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Coward.
Kabir Singhania
That insult would sound stronger if your hands were not trembling.
She hated how accurate he was.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
What do you want from me?
Long enough to disturb her more than instant replies ever did.
Kabir Singhania
I haven't decided yet.
Another message followed before she could breathe properly.
Kabir Singhania
But I dislike the way others look at you.
His words did not sound merely mysterious.
They sounded possessive.
Dangerously so.
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The First Time He Said My Name Slowly
The message remained in her mind long after the library emptied.
"I dislike the way others look at you."
It should have sounded arrogant.
It should have angered her more than unsettled her.
Instead, it stayed—
quietly persistent—
as if his words had learned how to remain even after the screen darkened.
By evening, college felt unusually crowded.
Laughter that reached her without meaning anything.
Anwesha adjusted the books in her arms and stepped toward the outer gate, already thinking of home, when a familiar voice interrupted her path.
A senior from another department.
Not important enough to remember often, yet familiar enough to recognize instantly.
Rohit
"You're always in a hurry," he said, walking beside her.
Anwesha offered only a polite glance.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
I have work.
Rohit
One coffee takes very little time.
The answer came simple, clear.
Yet he continued walking beside her.
Rohit
You refuse too quickly.
She did not reply.
Some refusals should not need explanation.
The evening sun had lowered enough to stretch shadows across the campus road.
Students moved around them.
No reason to feel uncomfortable.
Yet something in his persistence felt unnecessary.
Rohit
I've asked before too(smiling again). You never answer properly.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
I am answering properly now.
For the first time, the smile weakened.
Before he could reply, her phone vibrated.
One message.
Kabir Singhania.
Her pulse shifted instantly.
Kabir Singhania
Walk forward.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
She looked at the screen, then around her.
Rohit
*Rohit noticed her distraction.
"Important?"
Kabir Singhania
Do not stop here.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
*A faint chill moved through her.
Anwesha took a step.
Rohit
Rohit matched it.
Then his voice lowered.
Rohit
You always ignore people like they don't exist.
Before she could answer—
another voice entered.
Calm.
Deep.
Controlled.
Kabir Singhania
Perhaps because some people do not understand silence.
The sentence landed with unnatural precision.
Anwesha turned.
And for the first time—
she saw him properly.
Kabir Singhania.
Tall.
Black shirt.
Sleeves folded once at the wrist.
A face composed with impossible restraint, sharp enough to appear almost severe, yet dangerously unreadable.
Nothing dramatic in his posture.
No visible aggression.
Yet the air changed around him as if the space itself had become cautious.
Rohit
*Rohit frowned immediately.
"And you are?"
Kabir's gaze did not move toward him first.
It stayed on Anwesha.
Measured.
Still.
Then, for the first time, he said her name aloud.
Slowly.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
*Her own name had never sounded like that before—
not softer,
not louder,
just deliberate enough to feel personal.
A strange stillness passed through her chest.
Only then did Kabir look at Rohit.
The expression remained almost indifferent.
But his voice sharpened by a degree.
Kabir Singhania
She already answered you.
Something about the sentence made even ordinary words sound final.
Rohit's irritation became visible.
Kabir Singhania
*Kabir's reply came immediately.
No.
One word.
Nothing more.
Yet it carried enough certainty to end the conversation before it developed.
For a moment nobody moved.
Then Rohit laughed lightly, though the confidence behind it had weakened.
Rohit
*He stepped back.
"Relax. I was leaving."
And he did.
Without another word.
Without another glance.
The moment he disappeared into the crowd, silence returned.
But now silence stood between them physically.
Closer than she expected.
Kabir looked exactly as his messages sounded—
controlled in ways that made emotion difficult to predict.
Anwesha spoke first.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
So you do exist.
Kabir Singhania
*A faint shift touched his expression.
Not a smile.
Something near it, but restrained before becoming visible.
Kabir Singhania
I assumed Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 were enough proof.
The unexpected answer caught her off guard.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
You knew I would be uncomfortable.
Kabir Singhania
I knew he would continue speaking after your refusal.
His voice remained even.
Almost clinical.
Anwesha studied him.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
You were watching again.
The honesty irritated her immediately.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
You say that too easily.
Kabir looked at her books, then at the tightening grip of her fingers around them.
Kabir Singhania
I prefer accuracy over comfort.
That line sounded exactly like him.
Sharp.
Minimal.
Dangerously composed.
A few students passed nearby.
No one paid attention.
Yet standing near him felt strangely louder than the crowd.
She should have left.
Instead she asked—
Anwesha Suryavanshi
Why intervene?
For the first time, his eyes held hers longer.
Long enough to unsettle.
Kabir Singhania
Because he touched your wrist.
Only then did she realize Rohit had briefly caught her hand while speaking.
A detail she had almost dismissed.
But Kabir had not.
And somehow—
that disturbed her more than anything else.
Before she could form another question, he stepped slightly aside.
Kabir Singhania
Your cab is late.
*Anwesha frowned instantly.
Anwesha Suryavanshi
How do you know I booked one?
Kabir looked toward the road.
A car stopped near the gate exactly then.
Perfect timing.
Then he looked back at her.
The answer came low.
Kabir Singhania
I notice what concerns me.
The sentence stayed suspended between them.
Too calm to sound romantic.
Too personal to sound ordinary.
Kabir Singhania
*He opened the rear door before she could recover.
Anwesha stood still for half a second.
Then entered.
Just before closing the door, she looked up.
Kabir had already stepped back.
Distance restored.
As if closeness had been permitted only briefly.
Then her phone vibrated again.
One message.
Kabir Singhania
Next time someone refuses to understand your silence—
Kabir Singhania
Call me before you explain yourself.
And for the first time—
fear was no longer the only thing his presence left behind.
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