I live in a quiet cul-de-sac where everyone mostly minds their business. So when Maritza from across the street asked if I could water her plants while she was in Costa Rica for two weeks, I said sure. She even handed me a spare key with one of those little pineapple keychains and laughed, “Don’t snoop!”

First few days, everything was normal—just a few ferns, succulents, and one ridiculously tall fiddle leaf fig. Her house was neat, smelled like vanilla and lemon polish. I’d just come in, do the watering, and head out. But on day five, I noticed her bedroom door was cracked open. I hadn’t touched that part of the house before.

And I don’t even know what possessed me, but I walked in.

The bed was perfectly made. Her closet doors were shut. But on the nightstand was a black leather-bound notebook, just barely peeking out from under a paperback. I know I should’ve walked away. I should’ve just left it alone. But it had a red ribbon hanging out like a bookmark, and something about it felt… personal. Urgent, even.

So yeah, I opened it.

The first few pages were harmless—lists, grocery reminders, a few random sketches. But halfway through, there was a name I recognized. Mine. Written in all caps. And right below it: a date from three weeks ago.

I flipped the page, heart racing. And what I read next made my stomach churn. It wasn’t just my name—it was an entire entry about me. About how she’d been watching me leave every morning for work, how she thought I seemed “kind but lonely.” There were notes about small things I did without thinking—like waving at kids who passed by or feeding the stray cat that sometimes wandered into our yard.

At first, it felt flattering, almost sweet. Like maybe Maritza was just observant, maybe even trying to befriend me more intentionally when she got back. But then I kept reading. The entries grew stranger, more obsessive. One talked about how long I stayed outside talking to a delivery driver—and whether he might be someone special to me. Another speculated why I always parked my car facing the same direction.

It was unsettling enough to make me close the book immediately. My hands shook as I slid it back under the novel, careful not to disturb anything else. For a moment, I considered leaving the house altogether and never coming back. But then guilt set in. Maritza trusted me. Maybe this was all innocent? People journal weird things sometimes, right?

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Over the next couple of days, I found myself looking over my shoulder whenever I went outside, wondering if Maritza’s words meant anything deeper than idle curiosity. Was she really just writing observations—or was there something darker beneath them?