The day started like any other. Chaitali sat by her window, her fingers gliding across the keys of her laptop as she typed away, lost in the world she was building for her latest project. A breeze filtered through the curtains, bringing with it the smell of freshly watered plants, the only reminder of the outside world as she immersed herself deeper into her own.

Her apartment, tucked away on the top floor of an old building, was as quiet as always. She preferred it this way—isolated, away from the chaos of the city, her entire existence bound between these four walls. The world beyond seemed too intrusive, too busy for her carefully constructed life. Here, everything was under control. Every story she wrote, every word she crafted, was within her grasp.

But this morning, a subtle feeling of unease had taken root in her. She couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was the way the shadows had shifted just a little differently in the room, or the way the silence felt too heavy, too still.

Pushing the unease aside, Chaitali clicked ‘Save’ on her document and leaned back, rubbing her eyes. She could feel the familiar tension building between her shoulders, a result of sitting too long in the same position, staring too long at the screen. She decided to take a break, making her way to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee.

As the coffee brewed, she opened her inbox, half-expecting the usual sea of editorial updates, newsletters, and a few comments on her latest piece. But something caught her eye almost immediately.

There it was—a mail that seemed to stand out from the crowd. No subject line, no familiar sender. The email had arrived early in the morning, almost as if it had slipped quietly into her inbox before the world had fully woken up.

Her hand hovered over the mouse for a moment, hesitant to click. Anonymous emails were hardly uncommon in her line of work—fans, aspiring writers, and readers often reached out to comment on her articles or seek advice. But there was something different about this one. The address was unusual:
[email protected].
It carried a sense of deliberation, like someone who didn’t want to be easily found.

Her curiosity piqued, she clicked.

Returning to her desk with the coffee in hand, she opened her laptop again, her eyes drifting back to the notification. Her email inbox, normally a sea of mundane work-related updates, now displayed something different—something unfamiliar.

Subject: Just a Thought

Sender: [email protected]

It wasn’t unusual for Chaitali to receive emails from strangers—being a freelance writer with a growing readership, she often received messages from readers who resonated with her work. But this one felt… odd. The address itself was untraceable, a generic Gmail handle with no name attached. No signature, no hint of the sender’s identity. Still, curiosity won over, and she clicked on it.

The email opened with a small, polite greeting, but the more she read, the more perplexed she became.

---

Dear Chaitali,

I recently came across your work and wanted to share my thoughts. Your writing holds a particular quality that is both delicate and strong—like a whisper that stays in the mind long after the words are gone.

It’s rare to find a voice like yours. It reminds me of something familiar, though I can’t quite place it.

You write with conviction. You write as though you understand more than what’s on the surface. Perhaps that’s why your stories resonate the way they do.

I hope this email doesn’t come across as invasive. I simply wanted to express my appreciation for your work. It has a way of making one reflect, and that’s something we could all use more of.

Until next time.

– An Admirer

---

Chaitali’s fingers hovered over the mouse, her mind spinning with questions. Who was this person? They didn’t sound like the typical fan or casual reader. The tone was too personal, too intimate, as if the person knew her—not just as an author, but as a person. It was unsettling in its subtlety.

She leaned back in her chair, sipping her coffee as she re-read the email several times. Each time, a new detail jumped out at her. She had received countless emails from readers before, but this one was different. It wasn’t just the anonymity—it was the tone. The email felt crafted, almost careful in its restraint. There was no mention of the actual piece of writing the person had read, no specific quotes or moments that stood out. Instead, it was more about the essence of her writing, the feeling it evoked. It was cryptic but intentional, and it left her with more questions than answers.

It wasn’t a fan letter. It wasn’t personal. But it was... thoughtful.

Why does it feel like it’s hiding something? Chaitali thought, frowning as she scrolled back through the email. There was nothing particularly revealing in the words, nothing that pointed to the sender knowing her on a personal level. And yet, she felt a strange familiarity in the phrasing, in the way the email unfolded. Like it was written by someone who knew how to handle words with precision.

A part of her wanted to dismiss it. It was probably just a reader with a flair for the poetic—a literary enthusiast who had stumbled upon her work and decided to reach out. But another part of her—a more cautious, inquisitive part—couldn’t quite let it go.The lack of a name. The generic email address. The deliberate formality. It all seemed so... intentional.

For a moment, she considered responding—asking who they were, how they had found her work, and what exactly they meant by their cryptic words. But something stopped her. It felt too deliberate, too calculated. Whoever this person was, they had chosen their words carefully. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to open that door just yet.

She closed her laptop, the email lingering in her mind like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

 
Over the next few hours, the email gnawed at her. She went about her usual routine—writing, responding to editors, and working on her next project—but the message was always in the back of her mind. At night, as she lay in bed, she found herself replaying it over and over, dissecting each line, each phrase, trying to glean something from the words that wasn’t immediately obvious.

Was this person someone she knew? The familiarity in their tone suggested so. But how? She had been living a relatively quiet life for the past few years. Ever since… him.

The thought of him flickered in her mind for a moment before she pushed it away. It couldn’t be him. They hadn’t spoken in last three years. He had moved on, left the country. She had tried to forget about him, about the love they once shared, but it still lingered at the edges of her memory, a bittersweet reminder of a life she had once imagined for herself.

No, this email was something else. Someone else.

Next morning, she tried to focus on her work, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the email. The cursor blinked impatiently on her screen, waiting for her next words, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in the loops of that cryptic message. Every few minutes, she would pull up her inbox again, rereading the email as if a second or third look might reveal some hidden clue.

“Why does it bother me so much?”, she wondered, tapping her pen against her notepad absentmindedly. She had received hundreds of emails from readers before—some gushing with compliments, others offering critiques, and a few with stories of their own. But none of them had stayed with her like this.

“It’s just a reader,” she reminded herself. “It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

Yet, the simplicity of the email only made it more intriguing. There was no flattery, no attempt to elicit a response—just a calm, measured appreciation. And that was what unsettled her. Most people who took the time to reach out were eager to share something of themselves—a personal connection, an experience, a desire for validation. But this email... it was different. Detached yet familiar. Polite yet distant.

After lunch, Chaitali found herself opening a new document. She stared at the blank page for a moment, then started typing:

A whisper that stays in the mind...

She deleted it almost immediately, feeling ridiculous for letting the email affect her writing. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the message held something more than what was written. It wasn’t intrusive, not in a way that felt dangerous or uncomfortable, but there was an intimacy to the words that felt... strange.

By the time evening rolled around, Chaitali had barely made any progress on her work. She had spent more time going back and forth between her inbox and her manuscript than actually writing, her mind too preoccupied with trying to figure out the intent behind the email. It wasn’t like her to be distracted so easily, and she hated the feeling of being off-balance.

She decided to step away from her laptop and take a walk, hoping that the cool evening air would clear her head. She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her keys, heading out into the quiet streets of her neighbourhood. The fading light of the day cast long shadows on the pavement as she walked, her thoughts still tangled with the words from the email.

She found herself running through possible scenarios. Maybe it was just a well-spoken reader who preferred to remain anonymous. Or maybe it was someone she knew, someone who had read her work and decided to reach out in a subtle way. The latter thought nagged at her, but she quickly dismissed it. None of her friends or colleagues would be so cryptic—they would have simply texted or called her.

“It’s just a reader,” she repeated to herself. But her gut feeling told her there was more to it.

As she rounded the corner to her favourite park, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, half-expecting it to be another notification from social media or a mundane message. But when she unlocked the screen, her breath caught in her throat.

Another email.

The subject line was blank. The sender:
[email protected]

She felt her heart quicken slightly as she opened the message. The body of the email was just as brief as the first one.

---

Chaitali, I hope I didn’t disturb you with my last message. I understand if you choose not to respond.

I just wanted to clarify—I’m not looking for anything from you. I simply appreciate your work and the way it resonates. There’s no need to feel uneasy.

I won’t bother you again if you prefer it that way.

Take care.

– A Reader who admires You

---

She stared at the screen, her fingers tightening around the phone. The email, much like the first, was polite and vague. But now there was a hint of awareness, a sense that the sender knew their messages were lingering in her mind.

Her pulse quickened, a low thrum of anxiety building in her chest. The email didn’t contain any direct threat or overt familiarity, but the timing of the second message felt deliberate, as if the sender knew she had been thinking about them all the time.

Was it a coincidence? Or were they watching her in some way, knowing exactly when she was unsettled? The rational part of her mind told her it was impossible—this was just someone with an instinct for timing, nothing more. But the more she thought about it, the less she believed her own logic.

“Why am I getting so worked up?”

Chaitali sat down on a bench, her mind racing with possibilities. Whoever this person was, they clearly had some insight into how to create suspense. But the question remained: “Why?”

She didn’t respond to the email, of course. Not yet, anyway. But the second message made it harder to brush off the first. Now, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was more than just admiration from a distant reader. There was an element of control to the communication—an unspoken understanding that they were inside her head, taking up space she hadn’t invited them into.

She tried to push the thoughts aside as she walked back home, but the weight of the emails followed her, a constant presence at the edge of her thoughts. By the time she returned to her apartment, she felt both exhausted and wired, as if her mind had been running in circles all day.

She poured herself a glass of water and sat at her kitchen table, her phone lying next to her, the emails still open on the screen. She thought about calling a friend, but what would she say? “I got two weirdly polite emails from an anonymous reader and now I can’t stop thinking about them”? It sounded absurd, even to her. But the feeling of being watched, of being known in some vague but unsettling way, wouldn’t leave her alone.

She considered responding—just a short message to acknowledge the emails and perhaps put her mind at ease. But something held her back. There was a power in the silence, in not giving them what they wanted. And besides, she still didn’t know who she was dealing with. The anonymity was unnerving.

As the minutes ticked by, she realized she couldn’t let it go. She needed to know. She needed to understand who this person was and why they were reaching out to her in such a cryptic, intimate way.

She started typing, her heart racing as the words formed on the screen.

---

Dear Unidentified, 

I appreciate your kind words and your insight into my work. It’s always humbling to know that my writing resonates with others on a personal level. However, I can’t help but wonder who you are. Your messages feel personal, almost as if you know me. Do we? Have we met before?

I’m curious about your intentions. Why reach out now, and why in such a cryptic way? I believe there’s more to this than just a shared love for writing. So, who are you really?

---

She paused, her finger hovering over the ‘Send’ button. Something stopped her. The email felt too confrontational, too direct. She didn’t want to scare the person off—not yet, anyway.

She deleted the message, closed her phone, and closed her eyes. For now, she would wait. She would see where this went.

Chaitali knew that she was being pulled into something she didn’t fully understand. And as much as she wanted to resist, to brush it off as nothing more than a reader’s attempt at connection, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this story.

Much more.

 Use this line as a feedback mail to Chaitali!