By the fourth day, I knew something was wrong.
It wasn't the late-night whispers or the fact that Adrian never answered his phone. It was the silence—the heavy kind that filled the air like fog.

We barely talked.
When I got back from class, he was already there, sitting on the bed, writing. When I left in the morning, he was at the window, still writing. Sometimes I wondered if he even went out.

There was one rule between us, though neither of us had said it out loud: don't touch the notebooks.
They were always stacked neatly on his desk, same color, same size, black with no brand.
Each labeled by date.
Each locked with a small silver clasp.

Except one night, he forgot to lock it.

It was 2:47 a.m. when I woke to the sound of rain tapping against the glass.
The lamp on Adrian's side of the room was still on, but he wasn't there.
His jacket was gone, his shoes too.

I sat up. The notebook on the desk was open.
Half of me said it wasn't my business. The other half—the restless, curious part—moved before I could stop it.

The pages were filled with neat handwriting, every line the same distance apart.
At first, I thought it was poetry.
Then I saw the date: September 14 — the day he moved in.

And below it, my name.

Ethan woke up at 2:46 a.m. again. He pretended not to hear the tapping sound near the window.
He's starting to notice things he shouldn't.
He's afraid—but he still wants to know more. That's what I like about him.

My hands went cold.

I flipped to the next page.

He didn't eat breakfast today. He doesn't realize I can hear the way he breathes when he lies.

Then, the next:

He touched my notebook tonight.

I froze.
That line wasn't written yet—it was written now.

The pen was still wet.

I turned around.
Adrian was standing by the door, soaked from the rain. His expression was calm, too calm.
"How long," he asked quietly, "have you been reading that?"

"I—I didn't mean to. It was open, and—"
"People always mean to, Ethan."

He walked closer, his wet footsteps leaving dark marks on the floor.
"You think I'm strange," he said, almost smiling. "But you still stay here. Why?"

"I don't know," I whispered.

He studied me for a long moment, eyes unreadable.
Then, he reached out and closed the notebook gently.
"I don't write to remember," he said. "I write to control what happens."

"What does that mean?"

He didn't answer.
He just looked at me, then at the window. "You should get some sleep."

When I finally lay down, I kept my eyes open.
The light from his desk lamp cast his shadow on the wall, long and still—like it was watching me.

The next morning, Adrian was gone again.
But a new notebook sat on his desk, labeled in silver ink:

September 19 — Ethan's Turn.

I didn't open it.
Not that day. Not the next.
But every time I looked at it, I swore I could hear something faint—
like paper shifting on its own,
like a heartbeat written in ink.

(to be continued...)