Elara didn't sleep that night. She lay on her dorm bed, her back stiff, the note open on the mattress beside her. She'd read it at least forty times.
I know what happened that night.
We need to talk. Before someone else does.
The handwriting was neat — too neat. Precise, elegant curves, like someone who always underlined their headings in black pen and took notes in ruled margins. Girl, maybe. Or a boy with excellent penmanship. But that was all she had — a scrap of paper and a hundred questions. Who wrote it? What did they see? And… what would they do with it? By morning, the dread calcified into purpose. She hadn't just blacked out that night. She'd been alone with Axle. She remembered flashes now, his laughter echoing in the stairwell, her voice raised, maybe a shove, a stumble. It was blurry, half-sickening. But she couldn't risk remembering too late. The hoodie she wore that night? Already destroyed. The dress underneath? In a garbage bag behind the female hostel two days ago. She checked her new phone , no trace of Axle. She had already deleted his texts weeks ago. Their conversations, their few calls, gone. But was that enough? She opened her laptop and began scrubbing.
Group chats from that night — "left."
WhatsApp backups — deleted.
Her Instagram story? Archived, then permanently wiped.
The problem was, it didn't matter what she deleted. Someone else had seen. Over the next few days, she studied every face that looked at her too long. In the dining hall, the reading room, during a test. She searched for hesitation, suspicion, or the flinch of someone holding power. On Thursday, she left her dorm early and visited the printing room near the Student Affairs block. She'd noticed the paper stock the note was written on thick, coarse, tinted faint cream. Only the printers near this block used that kind of paper. She hovered for thirty minutes, watching who came and went. Two girls printed assignment covers. A boy printed flyers. No one familiar, nothing odd. Nothing but her own pulse thrumming like a war drum in her ears. Friday, it happened again. Another note, slipped under her room door this time.
You're trying to erase it. But you can't erase me.
I saw what really happened.
This one burned.
Her hands shook as she read it. Her vision blurred at the edges. Whoever this was ,they weren't trying to be helpful. They were playing with her. And worse , they didn't think she remembered. But what did they see? Had she argued with Axle? Had she hit him? Had he hurt her first? She wanted to scream or confess or run. Instead, she wrote her own note back.
Meet me behind the café at 5 p.m.
No games. Just truth.
She slipped it into her own locker, the same way the first had come. If they were watching her, they'd find it. She waited behind the café that day. For three hours, no one came. By Saturday, she was unraveling. Elara knew what she thought she did. But the gaps were too wide, the doubt too heavy. And still, she cleaned. She asked a favor from a guy in IT said she lost old files on her Google Drive and needed to wipe her backup permanently. She watched him do it. She changed her passwords. Deleted old photos, even blocked Axle's handle posthumously. She couldn't take risks. Couldn't allow digital ghosts to rise. Her roommate thought she was grieving. Her professors thought she was focused. Only Elara knew the truth: she was hiding a corpse under every smile. Then came the final blow. In the middle of a film class, during a blackout, a phone flashlight clicked on two rows behind her. She turned, someone held up their phone screen. Briefly. A photo, grainy But unmistakable.
It was her. With Axle. In the stairwell.
His hand on her arm, her face flushed, angry. Then the image was gone, The lights came back on. The student whoever it was had vanished and now, she wasn't just guessing anymore. Someone had proof.