A male coworker commented, “That smells amazing,” after seeing my lunch.
“Could you make me one?”
I grinned and said, “Sure. Just return the container clean.”
He did.
But when I opened it the next morning, my heart stopped. Inside was a ripped paper towel. Scribbled in thick, blocky handwriting were six terrifying words:
“Get away from him before it’s too late.”
I froze. No signature. No clue who wrote it. It looked almost childish, the letters wobbly, smudged in places like it had been rushed—or written by a shaking hand.
At first, I thought it might be a joke. But the ominous tone… it stayed with me.
Across the office, Andrei—my coworker—was typing away at his desk, smiling at something on his screen. Oblivious. Or pretending to be. We’d grown friendly since he joined two months ago. He was charming, kind, helpful. Maybe too helpful.
I kept the note, tucked it into my backpack, and acted like nothing had happened.
That night, my roommate Mara noticed me staring at it.
“You sure that wasn’t from him?” she asked. “Could be his idea of humor.”
I shook my head. “Why would he ask me to make him lunch and then warn me… about himself?”
She paused, brows furrowed. “Maybe he didn’t pack the container. Maybe someone else did.”
That thought chilled me more than anything. If someone else had handled it—someone who knew I made his lunch—then someone was watching.
The next morning, I tried to test the waters.
“Hey, how was the chicken yesterday?” I asked Andrei casually.
He grinned. “Delicious. You have wonderful hands.”
I laughed lightly. “Did you bring the container back yourself?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. Why?”
“No reason. Just making sure the sauce didn’t spill.”
He nodded and turned back to his screen.
Either he was lying, or someone had tampered with it after he returned it.
I stopped making him lunch after that. Told him I was swamped. He didn’t push, just smiled like always.
But then I noticed something strange—Olivia.
Quiet, reserved, barely spoke in meetings. She and Andrei had started the same week, but rarely interacted.
Except I caught her staring—during lunch breaks, in the elevator, in passing. Always when Andrei and I were talking.
One day, our eyes met. She looked away instantly.
I couldn’t shake the feeling.
So I stayed late one evening, and when most of the office had cleared out, I walked over to her desk, pretending to need help with a client report.
She looked nervous when she saw me. “Hey,” I said softly. “Can I ask something weird?”
She nodded slowly.
I pulled out the note and unfolded it. “Did you write this?”
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. She looked around and whispered, “You found it.”
“You did write it?”
She glanced again toward the empty hallway. “Yes. I had to. How else could I warn you?”
My chest tightened. “Warn me about what?”
She hesitated, then whispered, “Andrei. He’s not who he says he is.”
“What do you mean?”
She bit her lip. “Not here. Please. After work?”
We met at a nearby café. Olivia looked pale, haunted even. Like she hadn’t slept in weeks.
“I worked with him before,” she said. “Different city. Different company. He went by Adrian then. I didn’t recognize him at first. But it’s him.”
“You’re serious?”
She nodded. “There was this woman. Friendly with him. Like you. She made him lunch sometimes. Then she started getting weird messages. Her apartment got messed with. She thought she was going crazy.”
“What happened?”
“She quit. Filed a police report before leaving. Said he followed her. Harassed her. But there was no evidence. He vanished before they could do anything.”
I stared at her, trying to find a crack in her story. But she didn’t flinch.
“You have any proof?” I asked.
“I deleted everything when I left. I was scared. I didn’t want him to find me again. But when I saw you two—how close you were getting—I panicked.”
I thanked her, dazed. Part of me wanted to dismiss it all. But things started to click.
Andrei once asked where I lived. Mentioned maybe moving to that neighborhood.
Another time, he said he saw me at the gym. I never mentioned I went to one. That had felt strange then. Now, it felt terrifying.
The next morning, I went to HR.
I didn’t accuse him directly. Just said I’d heard disturbing things about his past and felt uncomfortable. Asked if they could quietly check his background.
They said they’d handle it discreetly.
Days passed. Then a week.
Andrei didn’t come to work.
HR called me in. The manager looked grim. “We want to thank you,” she said. “We looked into your concern. Turns out ‘Andrei’ applied under a false identity. He’s used multiple names across five years. There are several complaints against him—harassment, stalking. No charges ever stuck, but it’s deeply concerning. We’ve reported him.”
My stomach dropped. “So he’s gone?”
“Terminated. And we’re cooperating with law enforcement.”
I left the office in a daze. I had dodged something serious.
That night, I messaged Olivia. She cried. Said it felt like a weight had lifted she didn’t even realize she was still carrying.
But it wasn’t over.
Two weeks later, I got an email.
Just two words:
“Thank you.”
No name. No address. Just… that.
I told Olivia. She’d received the same. We both blocked it.
Life began to settle. But I was changed.
Not paranoid. Just… sharper. I started looking out for other women at work. Shared the story—privately—with HR. Pushed for tighter vetting. They listened.
Olivia and I became real friends. We had the same dark humor, loved the same novels, rolled our eyes at the same office drama. We started a weekly lunch swap tradition—no anonymous notes, just real food and trust.
Six months later, we traveled. Just the two of us. Laughed under the sun. We felt free.
Until one morning.
Mara—my roommate—called me into the living room. She pointed to the TV.
A news anchor: “Man arrested for impersonation and stalking in multiple states. Used at least four aliases. Targeted women through workplaces.”
Then came the mugshot.
It was him.
His name wasn’t Andrei. Or Adrian. It was something else entirely.
He’d charmed his way into offices for years, left a trail of chaos, and always vanished before the consequences caught up.
This time, he didn’t.
An anonymous tip had brought him down.
I had a hunch.
So did Olivia.
Final Thoughts:
A lunchbox. A paper towel. A warning from a quiet colleague.
Sometimes, survival depends on listening to whispers others ignore.
Always trust your gut.
Always protect one another.
And never underestimate the power of a single, courageous note.
