Who Kills Me?

I woke again at three in the morning, my chest pounding like a drum inside a hollow cathedral of silence. The air was heavy, thick with shadows, and my breath came in uneven gasps, as though I had just surfaced from drowning. My skin was damp, my hair clung to my face, and my trembling hands reached instinctively for the blindfold that wasn’t there.

In my dream, I was bound. My wrists were tied with coarse rope, the fibers biting into my skin until I could almost feel them bleeding. My body was pressed against a cold surface, and the darkness around me was suffocating. Then came the figure — faceless, hidden beneath a black hoodie, standing over me like a shadow given flesh. He did not speak, but his silence screamed louder than any words. I felt the sting of pain, the weight of helplessness, and the slow unraveling of breath until I believed I had died.

It was not the first time. These nightmares had become my nightly companions, each one more vivid, more cruel, more merciless than the last. Ever since the breakup, ever since betrayal carved its wound into me, sleep had ceased to be a refuge. It had become a battlefield.

He cheated. He lied. And when I finally walked away, I thought I had freed myself. But freedom was an illusion.

Because he never stopped. He never let me go.

Now, every night, I dream of death. Every night, I see myself tortured by someone I cannot name. And every morning, I wake with the same question echoing in my head: Who kills me?

I sat upright, staring at the faint glow of the streetlight outside my window. The shadows seemed alive, whispering, shifting, curling into shapes that mocked me. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Another message. Another letter. Another reminder that he was still out there, circling me like a predator.

Roses at my gate. Chocolates at my door. Handwritten notes slipped beneath my apartment door. He thinks these gestures are love. He thinks persistence is devotion. But it is not love. It is obsession.

I remember the night he stood outside my apartment, clutching a bouquet of red roses. His eyes burned with desperation, his smile twisted with something darker than affection. I told him the truth then, my voice trembling but firm: “I cannot come back. You hurt me too deeply. I will not return to you.”

But he did not listen. He never listens.

Instead, he smiled — a smile that chilled me to the bone. He whispered that I belonged to him, that no one else could have me. And since that night, the gifts, the letters, the constant presence have never ceased.

Now, every nightmare carries his shadow. Every dream replays the torture, the ropes, the faceless killer. Sometimes I wonder if my mind is trying to warn me, or if it is simply breaking under the weight of fear.

I rose from bed, pacing the apartment, my bare feet cold against the tiles. The silence pressed against me, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant barking of a stray dog. I glanced at the mirror on the wall. For a moment, I saw myself differently — bloodied, blindfolded, broken. I blinked, and the reflection was normal again. But the image lingered, cruel and unrelenting.

I whispered to myself: “It’s not real. It’s just a dream.”

But deep down, I wasn’t sure.

The letters piled on the table, each one more desperate than the last. Promises of change. Declarations of love. Threats hidden between the lines. I picked one up, my hands trembling.

“If I can’t have you, no one else will.”

The words echoed in my head, merging with the nightmare. Was he the hooded figure? Was he the killer my dreams warned me about? Or was it something else — something darker, something inside me?

Eventually, exhaustion claimed me. My body surrendered, and I drifted into uneasy sleep.

When I woke again, the sun was already high. Nine in the morning. I stretched my arms, trying to shake off the heaviness of the night. My routine was simple: rise, breathe, stretch in front of the balcony, let the morning air remind me that I was still alive.

I stepped outside, the cool breeze brushing against my skin. I lifted my arms, inhaled deeply, and for a fleeting moment, I felt calm. The sky was pale blue, streaked with clouds, and the world seemed ordinary again. But then my eyes caught something — a figure standing at the corner near the post by my apartment.

I froze.

The person wore a hoodie, face hidden, body still. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. I couldn’t even tell if they were looking at me. But I felt it — the same chill from my nightmares, the same suffocating dread.

For days now, I had sensed it. For weeks, maybe months. Someone watching. Someone following. And every time I dreamed of being killed, I wondered if it was connected.

My heart raced, but I forced myself to look away. Ignore it. Pretend it’s nothing. That’s what I told myself.

I stepped back inside, closed the balcony door, and tried to breathe normally. I went straight to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let the water drown out the silence. I dressed for school, combed my hair, and prepared like it was just another ordinary day.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t ordinary.

Because the figure was still there. Because the nightmares were still there. Because the question was still there.

Who kills me?

And I didn’t have the answer. Not yet.