What on earth does he mean? My fingers fly across the keyboard, stringing together words to let him know just how sick I am of his games while in the back of my mind, I am hoping he doesn’t take me seriously and continues with said games.

“Who are you texting?” Evan questions sharply, watching me from the threshold of the room.

I almost drop the phone like I’m trying to hide incriminating evidence. I’ve done nothing wrong, and I have proof in my hands that I haven’t been imagining him. The Faceless Man is the only one that hasn’t been treating me like I’ve lost my mind. But I can’t bring myself to show the messages to Evan, be it for fear that this may just be a trick my mind is playing on me and I’m as crazy as everyone says, or that there really is a man that comes into my room at night and touches me.

I’m not convinced either way.

I try to plaster on an innocent smile, then realize that I wouldn’t normally smile at such a question. At least the Lili after the accident wouldn’t. The Lili before would have joked and asked if he was jealous. This Lili speaks as little as possible outside of Dr. Mallory’s office. “Work.”

He eyes me suspiciously but just grunts. “I’m going. You’re out of bread.”

I don’t respond, staying glued to my spot long after my wooden floor creaks beneath his departing steps, and my front door clicks shut.

We used to kiss before he left. We used to say exactly when we would see each other next, like we had to know for certain that the sun would rise the following day. He didn’t fill my heart completely, but after this past year and a half, I realize what he did fill was my time and the void of meaningless wandering through life.

My attention focuses on the slight tear in the wallpaper, just above the space Evan had occupied, and all thoughts filter out of my mind until there is nothing but white noise.

You’re dissociating, Dr. Mallory told me once. Your mind is going into a state of refuge.

I should be over mourning what Evan and I once had. I should be done with grieving my old life. But truthfully, I barely remember it anymore. You can’t grieve something you lost, when you don’t remember ever having it.

My seemingly perfect boyfriend that isn’t so perfect now, the dream job and the sister that I no longer have. The latter I will never forget but the former, I barely remember.

My phone’s alarm pulls me from my safe space, the place where no one can hurt me and I can’t hurt myself. I start moving on autopilot, grabbing my bag and my keys, then drive across town to get to work just as rush hour starts.

I’ve made a rule not to check my locker as soon as I start because I never know what I might find in there.

The morning goes by in a flurry of orders, and like Evan suggested, I try harder. I plaster a charming smile on my face even though I know it doesn’t meet my eyes, and I ask ungrateful customers about their morning. As Evan said, I’m out of bread and he’s not working as much, meaning that I can’t steal packets of instant noodles and granola bars from his house without him noticing. Unless I asked… No, I promised myself never to ask him. So I have to earn some money.

It’s just a coffee shop. No one tips well when they’re just trying to get their dose of caffeine on the way to a job they likely hate after probably needing to wrestle getting their kids into a car and then sit in traffic for the next hour. If I were in their position, I’d be in no mood for small talk and forking out extra cash for the barista that’s making me face my terrible life.

The rush dies down, and the tip jar remains as pathetically empty as it was yesterday. A lone glass of water atop the counter summons me closer, left discarded by one of the customers. As I pick it up, I become deaf to my surroundings, suddenly transfixed on the reflection of the water: a dark cloud hidden beneath a hood.

Awareness prickles my skin and I narrow my eyes at the reflection.

A soft breath fans the side of my face before whispering, “Soon, my night monster.”

The glass drops from my hand as I spin around, even though I know that I won’t find him there. Instead, I swear I see Dahlia standing on the other side of the window outside. But she isn’t there either.

My heart thunders against my chest, and everything crashes back to me, bombarding every one of my senses. The black t-shirt sticking to my back, my black jeans digging into the rolls of my stomach and my scars, the smell of coffee, the crying child, the abstract paintings.

Too much. It’s all too much. I want to scream at him to leave me alone. Beg him to show me his face. Was losing them not enough of a punishment for living? Now he has to haunt me, hunt me, taunt me. What does he think he’ll get? Does he want to break me? Well, I’m already broken. Hurt me? Fine, I know what pain is. But this? Whatever twisted game this is, it needs to end. Even if I’ve sometimes enjoyed it.

I’m not entirely sure the Faceless Man is real but I know for certain that I’m imagining Dahlia. She’s dead. She’s never coming back. I just need to face her. One day. Not today, I tell myself.

I stumble back when soft hands touch my skin, thinking that they’re his. And for a split second, the one word that crosses my mind at the touch is finally.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you alright, Lili? You’re looking a little pale.” Brit is younger than me, but she’s more put together than I will ever be. Ever the duty manager, she starts cleaning up the mess before I respond, but she glances up at me with her concerned hazel eyes.

I nod, then shake my head. “I’m going for a break, just a dizzy spell.”

“Well, you can take the rest of the day off—”

“No,” I blurt. I can’t afford to miss any work. “I just haven’t eaten, that’s all.”

I try to hide my trembling hands in my apron, and force myself not to look around to see if I can catch him staring at me. Or worse, to imagine Dahlia again.

She frowns, but nods her head. I run to the break room before she can change her mind and let one of the other staff take their break first. My bag is on the table where I left it, and I fumble with the zipper and rummage through its contents until the orange pill bottle is in my grasp. I swallow the medication dry without looking at it first, biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself from choking on the rancid taste.

My head falls forward between my shoulders as I grip the table, trying to get my breathing back when I notice my phone peeking out of my bag. He texted me. That means I can finally respond and let him know exactly what I think of his games.

I waste no time pulling out the phone to tap out a message.

Me: Leave me alone!

Unknown Sender: Never, my precious flower.

My breath catches once more, then again when I remember that it’s time to face my locker. Brit always reprimands me for being the only staff to leave their belongings on the table. Saying that the owner was nice enough to get us lockers, so we should use them, and that a messy break space leads to a messy workspace.

The few steps it takes to get to my locker are filled with foreboding. Maybe a hint of excitement. I never know what lingers behind the pale blue aluminum door. Maybe a gift? Another letter?

He left the first letter on the pillow beside my head.

We meet again, my night monster.

I had just got out of the hospital two weeks prior, and the letter almost sent me right back. I boiled it down to a sick joke, and forgot about it, focused on recovering and grieving; at least tried to do the latter.

I can still hear everyone tell me that it’s a miracle that I’m alive, that no one should have survived the crash that was meant to kill me. It almost killed me. I wish it did. I was in a coma for a month, then hospitalized for another month before they sent me home with nothing but pain meds and the trauma to keep me company.