Pieces of Her Heart

Samantha Reed never noticed the quiet man in the bookstore, the one who always lingered near the poetry section when she came in on Saturday mornings. She never gave a second thought to the barista at the coffee shop who always seemed to know her order before she spoke it. And she never saw the eyes that followed her when she walked home at night, wrapped in the comfort of streetlights and the illusion of safety.

But he saw her. He had always seen her.

The first note arrived on a Tuesday, slipped beneath her door in an envelope as delicate as lace. The handwriting was elegant, each letter carefully formed.

*With every beat, I am closer to you.*

She frowned but dismissed it. A mistake, surely. A lost love letter meant for someone else.

Then came the second note, tucked between the pages of a book she had just picked up from her favorite shop.

*A piece of my heart is already yours. Let me give you the rest.*

With it, something small and dark, wrapped in silk. A piece of raw flesh, its edges jagged. Her stomach twisted as she dropped it, horror blooming in her chest.

Detective Mark Calloway took the case when she reported it. He was sharp-eyed and steady, his presence grounding her as the notes continued, each more disturbing than the last. The body of a woman was found, her chest carved open. And still, the letters kept coming.

The last one was different. Placed on her pillow.

*You don’t need him. You only need me. With this, I give you all that I am.*

The bedroom window was open, curtains fluttering in the cold night air. And she was not alone.

By the time Mark reached her, she was struggling, the glint of a blade pressing against her throat. The man’s voice was a breathy whisper in her ear, trembling with love, with rage.

"You weren’t supposed to love him," he murmured. "You were supposed to love me."

A desperate move. A gunshot. Silence.

She survived. But nothing felt safe anymore. Not the bookstore, not the coffee shop, not even her own home. And yet, when she woke from nightmares of bloodstained letters and the weight of unseen eyes, Mark was there, steady and real.

A reminder that she was still here. That her heart was still her own.

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