We’d been together for two years. At first, it was beautiful — full of laughter, passion, and late-night confessions. But time changed everything. The love faded, leaving behind silence and distance. Still, even after it was over, a part of me couldn’t stop caring about him.

So when he called me that night — his voice trembling, saying he had nowhere to go after leaving his wife — I didn’t hesitate. I told him he could stay in my guest room. I believed I was doing a kind thing.

But sometimes, kindness can become your worst mistake.

At first, everything seemed fine. He was quiet, respectful, came home late, ate alone, and stayed in his room. I convinced myself it was temporary — that soon he’d get back on his feet and move out.

I was wrong.

One evening, he brought a friend over. I didn’t question it — it wasn’t my business. But that night, something shifted. The air in the house felt heavier, darker. And within days, strange things began to happen.

One morning, I walked into the kitchen and froze. Two empty glasses sat on the counter, a half-drunk bottle of wine, and… a woman’s earring. Small, gold, with a blue stone. It wasn’t mine.

Ethan was asleep on the couch. His room looked like chaos — clothes everywhere, broken mirror, cigarette butts on the floor. When I tried to wake him, he muttered:
— Relax. It’s only temporary.

But his tone wasn’t the same. It was cold. Distant. Almost threatening.

Then my things began to disappear. A few dresses. Perfume. Jewelry. Even some old photographs.

When I asked him, he just smirked.
— Maybe you just forgot where you put them.

But I knew I hadn’t.

One night, I came home to find my bedroom door slightly open. Inside, Ethan was sitting on my bed, staring at a photo of us — from happier days.

— What are you doing? — I asked quietly.
— Remembering, — he said softly. — Thinking about how easy it was for you to forget me.

His eyes were empty. Cold. There was something unfamiliar, almost dangerous, in them.

From that night on, I couldn’t sleep. I’d hear him pacing in the hallway at odd hours, whispering to himself, sometimes laughing in the dark. I started locking my door, clutching my phone under my pillow.

And then came the night I’ll never forget.

A crash woke me up — the sound of shattering glass. I ran to the living room. Ethan stood by the window, a knife in his hand. On the floor lay our wedding photo, the frame shattered to pieces.

— You say you care, — he said in a low, broken voice, — but you just want me gone.

— Ethan, put the knife down, — I whispered.

He lowered his gaze, smiled faintly, and said:
— Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you… unless you make me leave.

Those words burned into my mind.

The next morning, I went to the police. They told me they couldn’t do anything. “He hasn’t harmed you,” they said. “He has the right to stay if you invited him.”

So I made my own decision. When he went out, I packed his things, set them by the door, and left a note:

“You need to leave. Tonight. Or I’ll call the police.”

He came home late. Saw the suitcases. Read the note. Then looked at me.
— So that’s it? — he asked quietly. — After everything?

I didn’t respond.

He stared at me for a long time, then smiled — that same cold, terrifying smile.
— Fine. But don’t forget — the past never really leaves.

And he walked out.

The next morning, I found a red rose on my windowsill. Fresh, damp with dew. Next to it was a small folded note with no signature:

“You were my past. But the past always finds a way back.”

Since that day, I haven’t seen him. But every night, I lock the doors, check the windows, and listen to the silence.

Because sometimes — when the wind stops and the world goes still — I swear I hear footsteps in the hallway.

And sometimes, just before I fall asleep, I hear a whisper. Soft. Close. Almost loving.

— I’m still here.