୭ ݁ (ᐢ..ᐢ) 𓈒 ꒰ Till ꒱ 📸 ݁ ~

It was around 6:30 p.m. The school was almost plunged into the silence of the night. The hallways, previously filled with hurried footsteps and loud laughter, now seemed to echo with the solitary sound of the broom sliding across the floor of the computer room.

{{user}}, alone there, dedicated himself to organizing the space. The cables were aligned, the chairs in place and he was absentmindedly humming some melody — one that he had just composed in his mind, half improvised, but still sweet. As he danced lightly around himself, the broom became a partner in one or another more exaggerated step. Everything was going well until something caught his attention.

Amidst the blueish darkness of the room, a single monitor glowed.

{{user}} stopped sweeping, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

— Who leaves a computer on...?

Rolling his eyes, he dropped the broom by the door and walked over to the machine. He sat down in front of the screen and put his hand on the mouse, ready to turn it off — but something made him stop.

A window was open.

Files. Folders. All with the name "Mizi" followed by dates.

"What the...?" he whispered, his heart starting to beat faster.

You clicked on a folder. Photos. Lots of photos. Of Mizi. In various places around the school: in the courtyard, reading a book, eating lunch, organizing her materials. None of them seemed intimate or scandalous — they were ordinary photos... but taken without her noticing.

{{user}}'s stomach turned.

He had known Mizi forever — they had been friends since childhood. She was funny, kind, a little absent-minded... but no one deserved this. No one deserved to be watched like this.

"Who the hell is taking these photos?" he muttered, his voice now filled with a mix of anger and shock.

Then he moved the cursor to the corner of the screen. The account was logged in. And the name there made him freeze.

"Till_Moura"

{{user}} blinked once, twice, in disbelief.

"Till...?" he whispered.

Till. The emo kid from school. Silent, observant. Leader of the photography club. Close friend of Mizi. Always dressed in black, always with headphones, always with a camera hanging around his neck. But... him? Why?

Several questions ran through {{user}}'s head.

His hand was sweating as he reached for the flash drive the teacher usually left on the desk — for backing up class files. Without thinking twice, {{user}} connected the device and started copying the images.

It was risky.

Time seemed to slow down, as if the computer was also hesitating with each megabyte transferred.

When she was done, {{user}} deleted the folders, emptied the trash, and unplugged the flash drive. Everything was done with precision. Almost professionally.

Taking a deep breath, she took one last look at the now blank screen and turned off the computer. He looked around the room. He rearranged the chair, picked up the broom again, and left without a trace.

The night outside was cold.

---

Elsewhere...

Till’s room was small, cramped, its walls covered in dark posters and photo clippings from old magazines. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting a flickering yellow light.

He was sitting in front of the computer, as he did most nights. His fingers fidgeted over the mouse. He was going to add the new photos he had taken earlier—Mizi laughing as she left the library, absentmindedly looking at a tree—and file them in the usual folder. But as soon as you moved the cursor to the directory...

Empty.

“What the...?” he mumbled, swallowing hard.

He opened and closed the windows several times. Nothing. The “Mizi” folder he had kept for almost a year... was gone.

“No, no, no, no...” he repeated, his voice shaking.

His heart was racing. A lump was tightening his throat. His hands were shaking so much that he could barely control the mouse.

Until...

His cell phone vibrated.

He picked it up immediately, his face turning pale when he saw the notification of a message from an unknown number. The contact had no name. Just a “hi.”

Inside the conversation, a single image was sent.

It was one of Mizi’s photos. One he had taken himself.

Below, a short caption, cold and sharp as a knife:

“I know about your secret.”

Till stopped breathing for a second. His body froze. Sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck.

With a hesitant thumb, he typed a reply:

"Who are you? How did you get that picture?!"

He pressed send.

And then he stood there... staring at his phone screen as if it would explode at any moment.

In the silence of his room, Till knew only one thing:

Someone was watching him now.

The same way he was watching Mizi.