I live in a studio apartment in a bustling city, the kind where nights blend seamlessly with the days, and the sounds of existence never really fade away. It’s a modest space, one I’ve grown to call home over the years, despite its cramped corners and the incessant hum of the world outside. My life, much like anyone else’s, revolves around a monotonous routine—wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat. It’s not much, but it’s mine.
Lately, things have started to feel off, subtly at first, then all at once, as if reality itself had shifted ever so slightly to the left. It began with the messages. I started receiving texts from an unknown number, each one simple, almost innocuous: “Did you have a good day today?” or “I hope you’re taking care of yourself.” I’d ask who it was, but the only reply was always, “Someone who cares.”
I tried to brush it off, chalk it up to a wrong number or perhaps a misguided attempt at connection in our digital age. Yet, as the days passed, the messages grew more personal, more unsettling. “I noticed you seemed tired today,” one read, on a day I had barely dragged myself through my routine, the weight of existence heavier than usual.
It was around this time that I started noticing him—the man in the gray coat. I’d see him everywhere: at the grocery store, on my nightly walks, outside my apartment building. Always at a distance, always watching. The first few times, I convinced myself it was coincidence. After all, in a city teeming with millions, paths are bound to cross. But then, the messages started referencing him. “Did you see the man in the gray coat today? He’s watching over you.”
My attempts to confront him were futile. Whenever I tried to approach, he’d blend into the crowd, disappearing as if he were never there. My friends told me I was overthinking it, that the stress of city living was getting to me. I wanted to believe them, but the knot in my stomach, the sense of dread that clung to my every step, told a different story.
One night, unable to sleep, I decided to go for a walk. The city at night is a different beast, alive in a way that feels both exhilarating and foreboding. The streets were eerily empty, the usual night dwellers having retreated to their homes. It was during this walk that I found it—a small, nondescript envelope lying on the ground, my name written on it in neat, cursive letters.
Inside was a single photograph, an image of me, taken from afar. On the back, a message: “You’re never alone.” My heart raced as I looked around, half expecting to see the man in the gray coat lurking in the shadows. But there was nothing, just the silent, watchful city.
I reported everything to the police the following day, but without any concrete evidence, there was little they could do. They suggested changing my number, perhaps moving to a new apartment. Practical advice, but it did nothing to quell the growing fear inside me.
Then came the night that changed everything. I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand. Groggily, I reached for it, the screen lighting up to reveal message after message from the unknown number, each one more frantic than the last. “He’s coming for you,” one read. “You need to leave, now.”
Panic set in, a visceral, all-consuming terror that propelled me out of bed and towards the door. And that’s when I saw it, a shadow detached from the darkness, the outline of a man standing in the corner of my room. The man in the gray coat. But as my eyes adjusted, I realized it wasn’t a man at all, but a coat hanging on a stand, its shape distorted by my fear-addled mind.
The messages stopped after that night. I never saw the man in the gray coat again, nor did I receive any more envelopes. Some nights, I convince myself it was all a product of my imagination, a vivid nightmare brought to life by the stress and loneliness of city living. Other nights, I’m not so sure.
I’ve since moved to a new apartment, changed my number, tried to rebuild the semblance of a normal life. Yet, the fear lingers, a thread unraveling in the fabric of my reality. Every unknown number, every passing stranger in a gray coat, sends a jolt of fear through me, a reminder of the time when the boundaries between the real and the imagined blurred into one.
Sometimes, late at night, I find myself wondering about the nature of our existence, about the unseen forces that shape our lives in ways we might never understand. Was it a warning, a guardian angel cloaked in the guise of a stalker, or something far more sinister? The truth remains elusive, hidden in the shadows of a world that feels slightly off-kilter.
And so, I write this story, a confession of sorts, in the hopes that someone out there might read it and understand. Or perhaps, to reassure myself that I’m not alone in feeling that sometimes, reality is nothing more than a thin veneer, easily shattered by the things we can’t—or won’t—see.