My Ex Planned My Murder

I’m writing this with shaking fingers and a mind that won’t stop racing. If I hadn’t trusted my gut—or maybe if I hadn’t been such a paranoid overthinker—I wouldn’t be here right now. I would’ve ended up as a missing person in a town where no one stays missing for long... just forgotten.

And the person responsible?

My ex. The man I loved for five years. The one I almost married.

Let me start from the beginning.

I met Aditya in college. He was charming, intelligent, the kind of guy who seemed to know everyone and still made you feel like you were the only one in the room. We were the “perfect couple,” at least that’s what everyone said. Graduation came and went, and we moved in together in Bhubaneswar, sharing a modest 2BHK apartment with peeling paint and too many memories.

But love—real love—doesn’t survive secrets. And Aditya had a lot of them.

It started with small things. Late-night calls he wouldn’t explain, disappearing for hours without notice, locking his phone like his life depended on it. When I asked questions, he’d smile, kiss my forehead, and say, “You worry too much, baby.”

Then, about a year ago, I found out he had cheated.

Not once. Multiple times. With strangers, acquaintances, even a mutual friend. I confronted him, tears choking my throat, and he did something I never thought he would—he laughed. A cruel, quiet laugh that didn’t belong to the man I thought I knew.

“You think I was faithful to you?” he asked. “You’re just another phase. And I’m done with this one.”

I left him that night. Packed a bag, blocked his number, and moved back to my cousin’s place. I told myself I was healing. I tried therapy, meditation, even dating again. But something in me had changed. I didn’t feel safe. Not really.

And then the messages started.

At first, it was just my imagination—or so I thought. A text from an unknown number:

“You’re not safe.”

Another message a week later:

“You look good in blue. Too bad it’ll be red soon.”

I went to the police. They dismissed it as a prank.

My friends told me to block the number. I did.

But blocking the number didn’t stop the feeling. Like someone was watching me. Following me. I started noticing a black car parked near my new flat every few nights. The windows were tinted. The engine never ran. Just... there. Waiting.

One night, I saw someone standing near it. A man, tall, wearing a hood. When I stepped closer, he disappeared into the darkness like smoke.

I told myself I was overreacting. Until I got a call. No number. Just silence on the other end. Then a whisper:

“Three days.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

I installed cameras in my flat. Changed the locks. Got pepper spray. I stopped going out unless I had to. My boss at the publishing house noticed. She thought it was stress. I told her I just needed time. I didn’t tell her I felt like I was living on borrowed time.

Then, last week, my cousin Neha—who had been traveling—finally returned. I broke down and told her everything. She didn’t laugh. She believed me. She held my hand and said, “We’re going to the police again. This time, I’m coming with you.”

But before we could go, something happened.

Two days ago, she found something strange in our mailbox. A plain envelope, no address, no name. Inside was a USB drive.

I hesitated. She plugged it into her laptop. It was a single video file—no title, no timestamp.

The footage showed my street. My building. It had clearly been recorded from across the road.

And then... it showed me. Leaving the house. Walking toward the market. Pausing to tie my shoe.

Then, a man appeared on screen. Tall. Hooded. He followed me for two blocks.

The video cut.

The file also contained a folder labeled: “Plan.”

Inside: photos of me. Taken without my knowledge. My workplace. My gym. My window. My cousin’s flat. And one final image.

It was of me sleeping.

Neha screamed. I felt my heart freeze. Because the photo had been taken from inside my room.

We called the police immediately. This time, they listened. They sent two officers, who reviewed the footage and began a formal investigation. They asked me to think—who would do this?

And suddenly, I knew.

Aditya.

It was crazy, right? But I remembered things. How he used to say, “You think you can just leave me?” The way he smiled when he was angry. Cold. Calculated.

He was obsessed with control. And I had broken his.

But proving it wasn’t easy. He had an alibi for the last few weeks. No paper trail. No direct threats.

Then Neha had an idea.

She messaged him from a fake number. Pretended to be a girl who wanted to meet him—someone who had heard about his “dark side” and was interested.

He took the bait.

They agreed to meet in a café in the old part of town. But instead of Neha, two undercover officers went.

Aditya showed up.

With a knife in his jacket.

He confessed everything under interrogation. Said he didn’t mean to “go that far”—that he just wanted to “scare me into coming back.” But the drive, the videos, the threats—it was all him. He’d even bribed someone to install hidden cameras in my apartment while I was away at work.

He planned to lure me to an isolated spot. Stage a “chance encounter.” And then?

He didn’t say. But the officers did.

He had bought plastic sheets. Zip ties. A burner phone. His internet search history had pages like: “how to make someone disappear” and “how to erase fingerprints from a knife.”

He’s in custody now.

And I’m safe.

At least, physically.

But sometimes at night, I still hear the whisper.

“Three days.”

Not because it’s real anymore. But because once someone you loved tries to kill you, your soul doesn’t forget.

I loved a monster.

And I survived him.

But I’ll never be the same.