Ellen's Eli

Her 2:17 date.

I met Eli because I could not sleep.

Every night at two seventeen, the same minute without fail, I woke up with my heart racing and the sense that someone was standing too close. I lived alone in a narrow apartment above a closed bakery. The walls smelled faintly of old sugar and burned bread. I blamed the dreams on that, on the building settling, on stress. Anything but the truth.

The truth was that someone was waiting for me.

The first time I saw him, I was barefoot in the kitchen, staring at the clock like it had insulted me. Two seventeen glowed back. I turned, and he was there, leaning against the doorway like he belonged in my life.

He looked ordinary enough. Dark hair, tired eyes, soft mouth that suggested he smiled more than he should. He did not flicker or fade. He did not float. He breathed.

“You finally noticed me,” he said.

I should have screamed. I did not. I felt relief instead, like I had been holding my breath for years.

After that, he came every night.

Eli never crossed the threshold of my bedroom. He stayed in doorways, corners, places where shadows gathered naturally. He never touched anything. He never touched me. That should have been comforting. Somehow, it made things worse.

We talked.

He asked about my job at the library. About my mother who called too often. About the way I kept every light on at night. I asked about him. He dodged those questions gently, like a man stepping around puddles.

I fell in love before I understood what he was.

Love felt the same as it always had. Warm. Stupid. Hopeful. I started leaving the kettle on at night because he liked the sound. I saved jokes for him. I waited for two seventeen like it was a date.

The unease crept in slowly.

Things began to go missing. Not valuables. Small things. A hair tie. A spoon. The bookmark from my favorite novel. When I asked him, he smiled and said nothing.

“You can tell me,” I said once, trying to sound light.

“I know,” he replied. “I like that you think I will.”

One morning, I woke with fingerprints bruised into my wrist.

They were not mine.

I confronted him that night. My voice shook, but I held my ground.

“You said you would never touch me.”

Eli looked genuinely hurt. “I did not.”

“Then who did?”

He was quiet for a long time. The silence pressed against my ears until I felt dizzy.

“There are rules,” he said finally. “Some of them bend. Some of them break.”

That was the night I realized the apartment no longer felt empty during the day.

I started seeing him in reflections. Not clearly. Just a blur where he should not be. I heard breathing behind me in quiet aisles at work. The sense of being watched followed me like a smell I could not wash off.

I should have left. Packed a bag. Slept on a friend’s couch. Called someone.

Instead, I asked him to stay.

I told myself love meant accepting flaws. I told myself every relationship had shadows.

Eli grew closer.

Not physically. He still kept his distance. But his presence thickened, like humidity before a storm. I dreamed of him standing over my bed, his face inches from mine, his expression aching with restraint.

“You are changing,” I said one night.

“So are you,” he answered.

He started calling me his anchor.

“You keep me here,” he said. “You give me weight.”

I laughed it off, even as my body grew heavier. Even as bruises bloomed in places I could not explain. Even as the apartment grew colder.

The truth came from my neighbor, Mrs. Halloway, who had lived in the building since before it shut down.

“You are not the first girl to glow like that,” she said, eyeing me over her glasses. “Like something is feeding on you.”

I did not tell her about Eli. I did not need to. She knew.

“He never keeps them long,” she said softly. “They always choose him.”

That night, I told Eli I loved him.

He closed his eyes, like the words hurt.

“You should not,” he said.

“I do,” I replied. “And I think you love me too.”

He stepped closer than ever before. I felt cold roll off him in waves.

“I do,” he admitted. “That is the problem.”

The truth spilled out then. He was bound to places, to people who noticed him. Attention gave him shape. Affection gave him strength. Love gave him permission.

“What happens when I cannot give you any more?” I asked.

He did not answer.

At two seventeen, the air pressed down on me. My chest tightened. I felt myself sinking, like sleep pulling me under too fast.

“Stop,” I whispered.

Eli reached out, just once. His fingers brushed my cheek. Ice burned my skin.

“I tried,” he said.

I woke hours later, alone.

The apartment felt hollow. Too big. Too quiet. The bruises faded. The weight lifted. I told myself it was over.

But sometimes, when I wake in the night, I feel someone waiting just beyond my sight.

And worse than the fear is the longing.

Because part of me hopes it is him.

WC approximately 1200