The Notes Weren't Romantic

Chris entered my life a few weeks back. We'd alternate — some nights at his apartment, some at mine, occasionally apart. Every morning he headed out after spending the night, he'd tuck a handwritten slip of paper somewhere for me to find. I remember the very first one. It read: "I ADORE WATCHING YOU AS YOU SLEEP." It struck me as unbelievably sweet. I don't recall most of the slips that followed. I only started committing them to memory once things took a darker turn. At first I linked nothing together.

Like that first slip, one in particular stands out — the one that made everything start feeling off. "TWIRL AROUND THE LIVING ROOM FLOOR." I chuckled and tossed the scrap into the bin. The following morning I woke to the overpowering scent of spilled perfume — a bottle of mine had shattered. I had no explanation for how it happened, but I pushed it from my mind soon enough.

The slip Chris left the next time read: "PUT ON YOUR FAVORITE SONG." I barely gave it a glance. I was rushing to get to work, so I crumpled it, threw it out, and hurried out the door. The morning after, I found bruises blooming along my arm. I couldn't figure out where I might have bumped myself, and stranger still, they were shaped like someone had pressed their fingers into my skin.

Chris had been traveling for work, so I didn't see him for several days. That evening we made up for lost time.

When he headed out in the morning, I discovered another slip on the bed: "WEAR THE WHITE BLOUSE." I laughed, slipped it on, and texted him a picture. His reply came back at once — a string of heart emojis.

Chris came over again the next night and, as usual, was gone by morning. As I shut the door behind him, I spotted one more note: "SET CANDLES AROUND THE BED." I grabbed my phone and messaged him: "Since when do you like candles?" The answer arrived instantly. "Eh, sort of." "Then maybe we can burn some together sometime?" "Absolutely," Chris wrote back with a heart. "Tomorrow night?" "Okay."

The next morning my face ached. In the bathroom mirror, patches of my skin looked scorched. I searched online for images of rashes, but none matched what stared back at me. I booked a dermatologist, though the earliest slot was a fortnight away.

When Chris saw my face he agreed it genuinely resembled a burn, but said it was probably nothing, and he was glad I'd scheduled the doctor visit. He left in the morning, and once again I found another slip. This time I didn't smile at it — I felt anger. "SWAP THE SHEETS FOR THE SATIN SET." I picked up my phone and texted Chris: "Why do you keep leaving these little notes?! Can't you just say things to my face?" A moment later the doorbell rang. I opened up and Chris stepped inside. "Em — I swear I haven't left you a single note." "No? Then what is this?" When I held up the slip of paper, he only stared at it, baffled. "That genuinely isn't mine, Em." A cold sweat broke out across my skin. Then we heard movement from the floor above — the attic. Footsteps, pacing back and forth. We hurried outside and called the police. They combed the whole house and found nothing. As we climbed down from the attic, I noticed a scrap of paper on the floorboards: "I CAN WATCH YOU." That night I packed a bag, and Chris drove me to his place. The police kept a cruiser patrolling past both our homes for a few days.

The next day, after waking at Chris's apartment, I opened the fridge and found a note stuck to it: "THIS PLACE SUITS ME BETTER." My heart hammered wildly. When Chris walked into the kitchen and saw my expression, he asked what was wrong. I lied — said it was nothing, that I was just feeling unwell — and kept the crumpled slip hidden in my fist. I'm scared that if Chris learned it hadn't stopped, our relationship wouldn't make it. Sometimes he notices things I do that puzzle him — why I hung those deep-blue wallpapers in the bedroom, why I cut my hair in the middle of the night — but I always manage to invent an excuse.

Today ought to be quiet. The only plan for today is darker, more noticeable lipstick.