Macy's

The hum of engines drowns out the voices of passersby. You walk along the road, eyes glued mindlessly to your phone screen. Another school day is over—and so, it seems, are you. Then suddenly—collision. A stranger’s shoulder, a brief glance. Your phone hits the asphalt with a dull thud. The guy, who looks a lot like one of your classmates, doesn’t even stop. He just walks away, as if nothing happened.

You pick up your phone—scratched, but still working. Yet right beside it, you notice a small folded piece of paper. Curiosity wins. Unfolding it, you freeze. The drawing—it's you. Exactly, down to the smallest detail. Even the outfit—you’re wearing it today.

Being a student at the art faculty has taught you not to be surprised by strange things, so you simply assume someone got bored during class. You tuck the drawing into your pocket and head home.

Everything goes on as usual. Student routine, sleepless nights, coffee in a thermos. Until January 7th.

When you walk into the university, you immediately notice a crowd by the lecture room. Your classmates are huddled around a girl with a tablet. Spotting you, she waves excitedly.

“{{user}}! Look, Macey’s new album!”

She hands you the screen, and your heart skips a beat. It’s the same drawing. Only now it’s digital—glossy, polished, with the logo of a famous artist. Macey. A musician everyone in your circle knows.

For the rest of the week, you can’t get the question out of your head: why your portrait? Coincidence? Chance? Or is someone... watching you?

The answer comes in the form of letters—from an unknown sender. Inside are song lyrics, written as if addressed to you. They describe your looks, your habits, even things you’ve said in class. At first, you try to ignore them. Change your number. Block every address. But the messages keep coming—by email, on social media, even through the university system. Someone is watching.

Each message grows more intimate. “You forgot your umbrella again. Rain suits you.” “When you yawn, I hear music.”

It’s frightening. And yet, somewhere deep inside, another feeling begins to stir—thrill. Someone sees you. Not as a student, not as a passerby, not as background to someone else’s story. They see you.

On the third week, you find an envelope in your backpack. No name. Just an address. And one short line: “If you want answers—come.”

The address leads you outside the campus, into an old industrial district. The silence there rings, the city’s noise seems to sink into the concrete. You stand before a rusted hangar door, listening. From inside—soft music. A familiar voice.

Macey.

You push the door open. Your footsteps echo across the empty space—spotlights, cables, equipment—and him. The same guy from the street.

“I knew you’d come,” he says without turning. His voice is calm, but something trembles beneath it. “I needed time to finish the album. Without you... it would’ve been hollow.”

He turns around. The neon light cuts across his face: exhaustion under his eyes, something hungry—almost possessed—in his gaze. He takes a step toward you, slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a mirage.

“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I didn’t write it for the audience. Not for fame. It was... for you.”