I'm crouched in Riley's dorm, my knees pressed hard against the cold floor, the wooden box I dragged from under her bed sitting open in front of me. Casey's outside, watching the hallway, her silhouette barely visible through the cracked, dusty blinds, leaving me alone in this dark, cramped space. My phone's light trembles in my sweaty hand, throwing shaky beams across the walls, peeling paint curling at the edges, a faded band poster half-torn and flapping in the draft from a vent. The air's thick, heavy with the bitter smell of stale coffee, her cheap floral perfume, and something sour, old socks or unwashed sheets, sticking in my throat like damp cotton. My heart's slamming against my ribs, so loud it drowns out the faint hum of the dorm's heater, and my breath catches, ragged, as I stare at the journal, old, leather worn thin, labeled "ALEX" in her jagged, uneven scrawl. It's heavy in my hands, hot like it's alive, and my gut twists, she's been after him, framing me, twisting everything, and this is proof of something worse, something sick.
I flip it open, slow, my fingers stiff, the pages crinkling loud in the suffocating quiet, yellowed edges brushing my skin. My light catches the first lines, black ink, smudged deep, like she pressed the pen too hard in a fury. "March 10, Alex at the park, 3 p.m., blue jacket, alone," it reads, dated years back, before I crashed into his life. My stomach churns, a cold knot tightening, I shift, my boots scuffing a gritty layer of dust, and I turn more pages, my hands clammy, the paper sticking to my fingertips. "April 5, coffee shop, black coffee, window seat, stared out 12 minutes." "June 12, bookstore, locked up 9:47, checked the alley twice." It's his life, every step, every habit, tracked in tight, obsessive lines, her handwriting crawling across the pages like ants. My mouth dries out, my tongue thick, this isn't just watching, it's creepy, like she's been glued to his shadow forever.
Photos slip out, faded, corners bent, fluttering onto my lap, and I grab one, my fingers shaking so bad it almost tears. It's Alex, younger, smiling wide, outside the store, his hair messy under a gray cap, caught mid-step on the sidewalk, the shot blurry like she snapped it fast from across the street. Another, him walking by the river, his coat flapping in the wind, the water glinting behind him, and then one that stops my breath: him at my crash site, three years ago, his truck parked crooked on the gravel, his face tired, lined with worry, the day he pulled me from the wreck. She was there, watching him save me, before I even knew his name, and my chest squeezes, my breath short, shallow. I flip faster, more notes, his habits spilling out, eggs sunny side up, scrawled in a shaky hand; his laugh at a stray dog, "soft voice, tilted head"; places he goes, park benches, the diner, his truck's usual parking spot, all mapped out, pinned down like she's owned him.
Her writing shifts, messier, wilder, halfway through, and I lean in, my light flickering over the desk's clutter, pens scattered, a cracked mug with coffee stains, crumpled receipts piling up. "He took Jamie in, why him?" she scrawls, my name scratched so hard the ink bleeds through, tearing the thin paper. "Alex is mine, always was, Jamie doesn't get it." My hands freeze, my pulse thumping loud in my ears, she's crazy, hates me, thinks I stole him from her. "He was mine first," she writes, big, underlined three times, the pen ripping a hole through the page, and my stomach drops, cold and heavy, it's personal, her obsession turned sharp against me. "Jamie's nothing, ruining it, I'll fix it," she adds, the letters slanting, frantic, and I feel sick, my head spinning, she's unhinged, lost in this.
I dig deeper, another journal in the box, smaller, leather cracked at the spine, and flip it open, my hands shaking worse, sweat beading on my forehead despite the chill. More Alex, years of him, her watching, waiting, filling pages with him. "He smiled at me today, meant for me, not him," she writes, the words looping, twisted, like she's built a world where he's hers alone. "August, emails planted, Jamie's out soon." "September, money gone, his pen, perfect." My breath stops, it's her, admitting it, the cheating, the theft, every lie to bury me, written out in her own hand. "Alex doubts him now, mine again," she gloats, a smug curl to the letters, and my chest burns, she's proud, tearing us apart. A photo falls, recent, him at the counter, me in the back wiping tables, my face scratched out with red ink, jagged lines like my ruined sketches, and my hands clench, the paper crumpling under my grip.
I grab my phone, quick, snapping pictures, pages, photos, her words, my fingers fumbling, the light bouncing off her cluttered shelves, textbooks, a half-dead plant, a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. This is it, proof, raw and real, her own writing, her own crazy, enough to show Alex, the cops, anyone. My heart's racing, I've got her, finally, but the room feels tighter, the shadows deeper, like she's still here, her presence choking me. I stuff the journal back, my hands slick with sweat, needing to get out, tell Casey, get this to Alex before it's too late. I stand, slow, my knees popping, my boots scuffing the floor, and then the door creaks, sharp and loud, slicing through the silence. My head snaps up, my body locking stiff, and Riley's there, hoodie dripping wet, eyes wide and wild, staring right at me.