The Girl He Hunted

Chapter 1: The Message

The notification sound pierced through my sleep at 2:47 AM.

I should have ignored it. I should have rolled over, buried my face in my pillow, and let whatever spam message or random group chat meme wait until morning. But insomnia had been my unwelcome companion for weeks now, and my hand reached for my phone almost instinctively.

The screen's harsh light made me squint. One new message from an unknown number.

My thumb hovered over the notification. Something in my gut twisted-a premonition, maybe, or just the anxiety that had become my default state lately. I opened it anyway.

The photo loaded first.

It was me. Walking out of the Central Library yesterday afternoon, my tote bag slung over my shoulder, earbuds in, completely unaware that someone was watching. The angle suggested they'd been across the street, maybe hiding behind one of the parked cars. Close enough to capture the tiny coffee stain on my white shirt. Close enough to see I'd been crying-my eyes were still red and puffy in the photo.

Then I saw the caption beneath it.

"You can't hide from your past, Anaya. I see everything."

My hands started trembling so violently I nearly dropped my phone. I sat up in bed, heart hammering against my ribcage like it was trying to escape. The darkness of my room suddenly felt suffocating, filled with shadows that seemed to move when I wasn't looking directly at them.

I checked the number again.

Unknown. Not blocked. Not from any contact in my phone.

Who took this? When? How long had they been following me?

My mind raced through possibilities. Vihaan? No, it couldn't be him. We'd broken up six months ago, and he'd finally stopped his pathetic "please take me back" campaign three months ago. He'd moved on-I'd seen him with some new girl on Instagram just last week, his arm draped possessively around her shoulders the same way he used to do with me.

The memory made my stomach turn.

I screenshot the message with shaking fingers and immediately opened my chat with my best friend Zara.

"Z, wake up. Someone's stalking me."

I attached the screenshot and waited, staring at the screen. The little checkmark showed she was online-probably scrolling through reels at 3 AM like she always did when she couldn't sleep. Thank god.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Zara: WHAT THE ACTUAL F??? Have you called the police???

Me: No... I don't know if this is serious enough? What if they think I'm overreacting?

Zara: Anaya. Someone photographed you without permission and sent you a threatening message. CALL. THE. POLICE.

Zara: I'm coming over. Lock your doors. I'm serious.

Me: It's 3 AM. Your parents will freak.

Zara: I don't care. I'm getting dressed. DON'T go anywhere alone.

I set my phone down and wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly freezing despite the warm May night. Through my window, the streetlights cast an orange glow on the quiet suburban road. Everything looked normal. Peaceful, even.

But someone out there knew where I lived. Knew my routine. Had been watching me.

"You can't hide from your past."

What past? What did they mean?

My life wasn't exactly thriller-movie material. I was eighteen, had just finished my final high school exams, and was planning to leave for Toronto in three months to study Meteorology and Atmospheric Science. My days consisted of sleeping in binge-watching shows, hanging out with Zara, and occasionally helping my mom at her startup's office.

The most dramatic thing about me was probably my taste in books-I devoured psychological thrillers like they were air. But that was fiction. My real life was decidedly boring.

Or at least, it used to be.

Before Vihaan. Before everything that happened last year.

I pushed that thought away forcefully. I'd spent six months in therapy learning not to let him occupy space in my head rent-free. Dr. Mehta would be disappointed in me for letting one creepy message drag me back into that darkness.

My phone buzzed again.

Another unknown number.

Different from the first.

My finger trembled as I opened it.

This time, it was a video.

The thumbnail showed the exterior of my house. My actual house, with my dad's car parked in the driveway and my mom's potted tulips by the front door.

I couldn't breathe.

I pressed play.

The video was short-maybe fifteen seconds. Someone had filmed my house from across the street, panning slowly from the gate to my bedroom window on the second floor. My light had been on. I could see my silhouette moving behind the curtains.

This was from tonight. This was from an hour ago, maybe less.

The video ended with the camera zooming in on my window before cutting to black.

No message this time. The video spoke for itself.

They were here. Right now. Outside my house.

I lurched out of bed and ran to my window, yanking the curtains closed so hard one of the hooks snapped. My breath came in short, panicked gasps. I pressed my back against the wall beside the window, afraid to look out, afraid to see someone staring back at me.

"Anaya?" My mom's sleepy voice came from the hallway. "Are you okay? I heard something break."

I couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. I just stood there, frozen, as my bedroom door opened and my mother appeared in her nightgown, squinting in the darkness.

"Sweetheart?" She flipped on the light switch, and her expression immediately changed when she saw my face. "What's wrong? You're white as a sheet."

"Someone's outside," I whispered. "Someone's been watching me."

She was across the room in seconds, pulling me into her arms. Safe. Solid. Real.

"What do you mean? What happened?"

I showed her the messages with trembling hands. Watched her face transform from confusion to concern to barely-contained rage.

"Get your father. Now." Her voice had shifted into what I called her Boss Mode-calm, authoritative, the voice she used in crisis meetings at her startup. "Lock this door behind me. Don't open it for anyone except us."

She was gone before I could protest, her footsteps quick and purposeful down the hallway.

I locked the door and sat on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest. This couldn't be happening. This was the stuff of Wattpad thrillers and Netflix documentaries, not real life. Not my life.

My phone buzzed. Zara.

Zara: ETA 10 minutes. My brother's driving me. Are you okay?

Me: My parents know. My mom's getting my dad.

Zara: Good. We're calling the police as soon as I get there.

I heard my father's heavy footsteps on the stairs, then low, urgent voices. A door opening and closing. My parents moving through the house, checking locks, tur and ing on outdoor lights.

Then my dad's voice, sharp and clear: "Hello, yes, I need to report a stalker. Someone's been photographing my daughter and threatening her-yes, they're outside our house right now."

Reality hit me like cold water.

This was real. This was happening.

Someone wanted to scare me. Someone wanted me to know they could reach me whenever they wanted.

But why?

I unlocked my phone and scrolled back through my recent messages, calls, Instagram DMs. Nothing unusual. A few texts from Myra, my friend from tenth grade who, now went to a different college. Some memes from Zara. A "good luck with exam results" message from my aunt in Mumbai.

Nothing threatening. Nothing strange.

Until three days ago.

I stopped scrolling.

There-a message request on Instagram that I'd ignored. From an account with no profile picture and a random string of numbers as a username.

"Long time, Anaya. Miss me?"

My blood went cold.

I'd assumed it was spam. Some bot or fake account. I hadn't even opened it.

But now, with shaking fingers, I clicked on the message thread.

Three messages, sent over three consecutive days:

"Long time, Anaya. Miss me?"

"Saw you at the library today. You look tired. Not sleeping well?"

"We need to talk about what you did. About what you owe me."

What I did? What I owed?

I'd never seen this account before. Never interacted with them. The account had zero posts, zero followers, zero following.

A ghost account.

Someone had created this specifically to contact me. To watch me. To...

A knock on my bedroom door made me jump so hard I bit my tongue.

"Anaya, it's us. Open up."

Dad's voice. I scrambled to unlock the door.

Both my parents stood there, and behind them, I could see Zara rushing up the stairs, still in her pajamas with a jacket thrown over them, her older brother Kabir hovering protectively at the landing.

"The police are on their way," Dad said, his jaw tight. "They want you to not delete anything. Keep all the messages as evidence."

"There's more," I said, my voice barely audible. I showed them the Instagram messages.

Mom's grip on my shoulder tightened. "What does that mean? 'What you did'? 'What you owe'?"

"I don't know," I whispered. "I swear, I don't know."

But even as I said it, a sick feeling of dread was spreading through my chest.

Because maybe I did know.

Maybe this had nothing to do with random stalkers or stranger danger.

Maybe this was about him.

About Vihaan.

About everything that happened last year-everything I'd tried so hard to forget, to move past, to leave behind.

"You can't hide from your past."

The message echoed in my head as red and blue lights began to flash through my window, painting my walls in alternating colors of alarm.