The Roses Arrived Before I Broke Up With Him

Every Valentine’s Day for the past three years, I’ve woken up to roses.

Not a text saying they’re on the way.

Not a knock on the door.

Just… roses already inside my apartment.

The first year, I thought it was romantic.

A dozen red roses in a glass vase on my kitchen counter. A handwritten card tucked between the stems.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Emily. Love you forever.

—Jason

I called him immediately.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

He laughed like it was obvious. “Your spare key.”

I didn’t remember giving him one, but we’d only been dating six months then. I figured maybe I had. Or maybe he’d convinced me during one of those late-night conversations where everything feels blurry and sweet.

The second year, it happened again.

Same thing.

I woke up. Walked into the kitchen. Roses waiting.

Different vase this time. Same handwriting.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Emily. Love you forever.

When I asked Jason how he’d gotten inside again, he shrugged it off.

“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

That bothered me more than I admitted at the time.

Because my door chain had been locked when I went to bed.

But the roses were still there.

I told myself I must have forgotten.

By the third year… things were already falling apart between us.

Jason had gotten strange.

He texted constantly. Called if I didn’t answer within minutes. Once he showed up at my job because I hadn’t responded for two hours.

“I was worried,” he said.

But he didn’t look worried.

He looked… relieved.

Like he’d confirmed something.

So this year, I decided Valentine’s Day would be the night I ended it.

I even rehearsed what I’d say.

Jason, this isn’t healthy anymore.

You’re scaring me.

We need to break up.

I fell asleep feeling strangely calm.

Like a weight was about to lift.

________________________________________

When I woke up, the roses were already there.

Except this time…

They weren’t in the kitchen.

They were on my nightstand.

Right beside my bed.

Twelve dark red roses in a black vase.

My stomach dropped.

I live alone.

My bedroom door was closed when I went to sleep.

I stared at them for a long time before I noticed the card.

My hands were shaking when I opened it.

Inside, written in Jason’s familiar handwriting, were six words:

“I know what you’re going to say tonight.”

My heart started hammering.

I grabbed my phone.

No texts from him. No missed calls.

Just the roses.

And that card.

I checked my front door.

Locked.

Deadbolt still turned.

The chain still hooked.

Every window in the apartment was closed.

No signs anyone had been inside.

But the roses had been placed two feet from where I slept.

________________________________________

I didn’t go to work that day.

I spent the morning checking everything.

Closets. Under the bed. The shower curtain.

Nothing.

Around noon, Jason finally texted.

Jason: Happy Valentine’s Day ❤️ Did you like the roses?

I stared at the message for a long time before responding.

Me: How did you get inside my apartment?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Then disappeared.

Then came his reply.

Jason: You’re always so funny.

My chest tightened.

Me: Jason. Seriously.

Three dots appeared again.

Jason:

You didn’t wake up, did you?

A cold feeling crawled up my spine.

Me: What do you mean?

His response came a few seconds later.

Jason:

You looked peaceful.

I felt sick.

Me: You were in my bedroom?

There was a long pause.

Then:

Jason:

Don’t worry. I was very quiet.

________________________________________

I didn’t respond.

Instead, I called my landlord.

“Has anyone entered my apartment recently?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Why?”

“I think someone might have a key.”

“Impossible. Only you and I have copies.”

I looked over at the roses.

The black vase.

The card still sitting open on my dresser.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive.”

After I hung up, I noticed something strange.

The roses smelled… wrong.

Not like flowers.

Something metallic.

I leaned closer.

And that’s when I saw it.

Tiny brown stains along the edges of the petals.

Not dirt.

Blood.

My phone buzzed again.

Jason.

Jason:

Are we still having dinner tonight?

My fingers felt numb as I typed.

Me: Yes.

Another message came instantly.

Jason:

Good.

Then another.

Jason:

I didn’t want to ruin the surprise before you broke up with me.

My stomach flipped.

Me: What surprise?

Three dots appeared.

Then his final message:

Jason:

Check under your bed.

________________________________________

I stared at the phone.

Then slowly turned toward the bed.

The room felt smaller.

Too quiet.

I knelt down beside the mattress.

My heart beating so hard I could hear it in my ears.

Then I lowered myself just enough to see underneath.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.

Just shadows.

Dark shapes.

Then my eyes adjusted.

There was a man lying under my bed.

Face inches from mine.

Smiling.

His phone lit up in his hand as another message sent.

My phone buzzed.

Jason:

See? I told you I’d know what you were going to say.

He whispered from the darkness.

“Because I’ve been here all day.”

My Ex Keeps Leaving Gifts on My Doorstep

I haven’t spoken to my ex in three years.

And before anyone asks—no, we didn’t end on bad terms.

No screaming fights. No cheating.

We just… stopped working.

Her name was Claire.

We dated for about two years in college. She was intense in a way that felt romantic at first—long letters, surprise visits, gifts for no reason. She loved Valentine’s Day more than anyone I’d ever met. She treated it like a personal holiday.

Every year she’d go overboard.

Handwritten love notes. Candy boxes. Little jewelry pieces she said reminded her of me. Once she even left a trail of paper hearts from my dorm door to the stairwell.

At the time, it was sweet.

Later, it became… a lot.

After we broke up, she didn’t take it well. She sent messages for months. Long emotional emails about fate and soulmates. Eventually I blocked her on everything.

The last time I heard anything about Claire was from a mutual friend last year.

She died in a car accident.

February 12th.

Two days before Valentine’s Day.

I remember feeling weird about it. Not devastated—we hadn’t spoken in years—but unsettled. Someone who used to be such a big part of your life just… gone.

I went to the funeral.

Her parents thanked me for coming. Her mom hugged me and said Claire used to talk about me all the time.

That made me feel worse.

But eventually life moved on.

Until this week.

________________________________________

Two nights ago, I came home from work and found a small red gift bag sitting on my doorstep.

No postage. No delivery sticker.

Just sitting there like someone had dropped it off.

I live in a duplex with a shared walkway, so it wasn’t impossible that someone left it by mistake. But the bag had my name written on the tag.

For Daniel.

Inside was a small heart-shaped box of chocolates.

And a folded piece of pink stationery.

My stomach tightened the moment I saw the handwriting.

I recognized it instantly.

Claire’s.

The letter said:

Happy early Valentine’s Day.

I saw this and thought of you.

That was it.

No signature.

But I knew.

The handwriting was identical to the dozens of notes she used to leave me in college.

Same looping “D”. Same little hearts she dotted above the i’s with.

I stood there in my kitchen for a long time staring at it.

Then I convinced myself there had to be another explanation.

Maybe someone found old letters and thought it would be funny to mess with me. Maybe one of our mutual friends was pulling a weird joke.

I threw the chocolate away.

I kept the letter, though.

Mostly because it scared me.

________________________________________

Yesterday, another gift appeared.

This time it was a small velvet box.

Inside was a silver bracelet.

I remembered it immediately.

Claire bought that bracelet during a weekend trip we took to Savannah. She held it up in a jewelry shop window and said it reminded her of me.

I remember joking that it looked like something a vampire would wear.

She laughed and said, “Then you can haunt me forever.”

Seeing it again made my chest feel tight.

Because I’m almost certain she kept that bracelet.

And the note attached to it said:

You never liked wearing jewelry, but I thought you might keep this one.

Same handwriting.

Same pink paper.

My hands were shaking when I checked the hallway camera outside my door.

I installed it last year after a break-in down the street.

It records motion all night.

So I pulled up the footage from early morning.

3:14 a.m.

The camera flickered for half a second.

Like static.

Then the recording skipped forward to 3:16.

Two minutes completely missing.

When the video resumed…

The gift box was already sitting on the doorstep.

________________________________________

I barely slept last night.

I kept telling myself there had to be a logical explanation.

Someone was messing with the camera.

Someone was bringing the gifts.

Someone alive.

But this morning…

There was another one.

A small envelope taped to my door.

No bag this time.

Just the envelope.

Inside was a photograph.

It was of Claire and me sitting on a park bench during our first Valentine’s Day together.

I hadn’t seen that photo in years.

I’m pretty sure Claire kept that one too.

On the back of the photo was another note.

This one made my blood run cold.

You always said you’d never forget our Valentine’s Days.

I’m glad you didn’t.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

My stomach dropped when I read that.

Because tomorrow is February 14th.

________________________________________

I tried calling the friend who told me about Claire’s accident.

“Are you absolutely sure she died?” I asked.

There was a long pause.

“Yeah,” he said. “Why?”

I told him about the gifts.

He went quiet.

Then he said something that made things worse.

“Dude… that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

Then:

“Because Claire was cremated.”

________________________________________

It’s almost midnight now.

Valentine’s Day starts in a few minutes.

I’m sitting in my living room staring at the door.

Part of me wants to leave.

Go stay at a hotel.

But another part of me needs to know who—or what—is leaving these things.

So I’m watching the camera feed live on my laptop.

Waiting.

It’s 12:03 a.m. now.

The hallway is empty.

12:07 a.m.

Still nothing.

Then the camera flickers.

Just like before.

Static washes across the screen.

When the picture returns…

Someone is standing outside my door.

A woman.

Her back is to the camera.

Long dark hair.

Wearing the same white dress Claire wore the night we broke up.

She’s holding something.

A large red Valentine’s box.

My hands are shaking as I watch.

She slowly lifts her head.

And tilts it toward the door.

Like she knows I’m inside.

Then she writes something on the tag attached to the box.

Very carefully.

Very slowly.

The handwriting is unmistakable.

Before she bends down to place it on my doorstep…

My phone buzzes.

A new message.

From a number with no caller ID.

Just three words:

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”