Jay waited a few more minutes, tapping her fingers absentmindedly on the edge of her phone. The hunger was gone now — replaced by a slow-building tension she couldn't quite name.
With a sigh, she rolled her eyes and opened Chrome. "Might as well figure out what mystery plant I just adopted."
She walked to the window where the sapling stood silently, cradled in the jug of water. The sunlight filtering through the curtains made the little stem glow slightly. She bent forward and said with a smile, "shall we?"
Then snapped a quick picture, then returned to her bed, cross-legged, her phone resting on her knees.
She opened Google Lens and uploaded the photo.
Searching…
Before the results could load, a notification buzzed across the top of her screen.
Unknown Number: You really don't know me?
Jay's breath caught.
Her fingers hovered above the screen. Her stomach twisted.
The message blinked on her screen, casual yet chilling. Her heartbeat suddenly felt louder in the quiet room. She swallowed.
It wasn't like she hadn't been waiting. She had. Desperately, secretly. But she had also expected — or maybe hoped — that silence would mean it was over. That she wouldn't have to face whatever this was.
But now it was becoming something else she got scared as she read the notification. She thought she read wrong or maybe there was more to this suspicious message. She quickly tapped the message open and scrolled it bottom to top.
The number was still saved as nothing — no name, no hint. Just digits. And this sentence it was cutting her.
You really don't know me?
She glanced around her room, as if suddenly aware of her own vulnerability, she felt as if she was getting stalked as if someone was watching her. She instantly got up and crossed the room in three quick steps, tugging the curtains closed tight, hiding from the outside view, then she went to her room door and looked around, and seeing that no one was there closed her door slowly. The room was dim now...
She returned to the bed, folding herself into the corner as if that could shrink her anxiety too.
With hesitant fingers, she typed:
Jay: Do I know you?
The reply came instantly.
Unknown: When you asked me "who" earlier, I thought you were being sarcastic. But… you really don't know me?
Jay frowned, nerves fraying now.
She stared at the message, rereading it, trying to hear a familiar voice in the tone. But it felt vague. Off. A little too rehearsed, "it seems rehearsed… this person must have typed before and was waiting for my reply … is this person try to hack me?" she thought out loud... "is this someone messing with me? Any of my old classmates? Is this a scam or a prank?" she said again.
She racked her brain. Friends from school. College acquaintances. People she'd ghosted. Numbers she might've saved once and deleted later. Nothing. Nothing felt like this. She was confused…
So finally, with careful words, she replied:
Jay: Respectfully, I don't recognize you. Great apologies. But… is there something that I can help you with?
The typing dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Then again disappeard
And finally—
Unknown: No.
That was it. Just… No.
Jay stared at the single word, blinking.
She paused, considering what to say, then decided she was done playing along with vague weirdness. And sighed a breath of belief.
Jay: Ah…Okay then. Well I guess… There's no need to continue this conversation. Many apologies again.
Her tone was formal, distant. She felt a little cold writing it — but it was the only way to guard herself.
But to her mild surprise, the reply came but it wasn't bitter. It wasn't possessive or dramatic or harsh or anything that could anger her… instead she felt a little more troubled. She re-read the message.
Unknown: Sure.
And Just like that. And it was over. As she read this … she let out a long, slow breath she didn't know she was holding. Her thumb hovered over the message thread. She clicked on the three dots and pressed Delete Contact.
Gone.
Finally. She dropped the phone on the mattress beside her and ran a hand through her hair, rubbing at her temple.
"Why do weird things always happen when I'm just trying to do normal stuff?" she muttered, half-laughing, half-exhausted.
She returned to her phone and reopened Google Lens.
The search had loaded now.
Dogwood Tree
Dogwood flowers and trees hold symbolic meanings of rebirth, purity, resilience, and even sacrifice. The tree's ability to thrive in harsh weather and its blooming in the spring after winter are often seen as representing strength and the triumph of life.
Jay read the words slowly, almost aloud.
"Rebirth. Resilience. Purity…" she murmured.
Her gaze shifted toward the sapling again. It sat peacefully in the glass jug near the window, its thin stem just swaying slightly where the air crept in through the curtain seam.
First that book. Now this. Again with the themes of rebirth. Again with purity.
It was starting to feel like someone was stitching symbols all around her, and she hadn't been paying attention.
Jay pulled the blanket up around her legs and leaned back, still staring at the tiny plant. It looked plain. Weak, even. But apparently, it had the strength to grow through storms and winters and still bloom.
"Are you like me?" she whispered. "Or am I like you?"
The sapling didn't answer, of course.
She reached over, gently rotating the jug so the sapling faced the light a little more directly.
"You're not ugly, I knew I was right no one is ugly…" she said. "You're just…you're just not grown yet…I would love to see what kind of specie of cornus you become when you will grow up… then this pot will be too small for you?? Will it not be??? I think I should look for a different place for you to help you grow well…" jay continued to say
"you know … you need ample space, water, light and air and of course love to grow", she said with a smile while looking at it… as she said this, her mood changed… she repeated what she just said. But then her stomach started to hurt. And before she could think more she was rolling with pain and tears were coming out of her eyes with the severity and intensity of the pain.