Every time something terrible happened in my life, she was there — silent, still, and holding the same pink umbrella as mine. I thought it was a coincidence… until I found the photos.
I think I’m losing my mind.
Not in a cute “haha, quirky girl overthinks things” kind of way. I mean, really losing it.
Because every time my life has shattered, when everything’s on fire and falling apart in slow motion — I see her. Always standing just out of reach and always holding the same pink umbrella as mine.
It’s not just similar, it’s identical. Soft rose color, small white daisies printed near the edges, and a barely noticeable tear near the top. I bought it on a rainy trip to Tokyo two years ago — limited edition and a once-in-a-lifetime find.
No one else should have that umbrella, but she does, and she shows up only when things go wrong.
I’m 29, female, and until a few weeks ago, I thought my life was finally beginning to make sense. I was engaged to a great guy, Liam — we’d been together since college. My small content creator career was starting to take off. My face was on reels, my voice in brand deals, my name finally whispered in the circles I used to daydream about.
However, misfortune started following me. First, it was little things. I slipped on my front steps and nearly broke my ankle. My laptop crashed during a sponsorship meeting. And I got a flat tire twice in one week.
Then came the messages.
“PIG. YOU’RE FAKE. EVERYTHING YOU BUILT IS A LIE.”
No number, no profile. Just cold, anonymous hate slithering into my inboxes from nowhere.
Liam told me not to worry. “They’re just trolls, babe. Comes with the job.”
Couple on a couch | Source: Pexels
He wasn’t wrong, but the messages were too specific. One mentioned something I said in a private Discord server. Another referenced a fight Liam and I had in our apartment — one we never posted or talked about online.
That’s when the dread started nesting in my stomach like a living thing.
But the worst part? The break-in.
We were out of town for the weekend, our first real vacation in months. When we came back, the door was unlocked. Nothing stolen, but everything… ruined. Our bed was slashed open, furniture flipped, and my makeup was poured all over the floors. And on the walls, written in red spray paint, three words I can’t unsee:
“DISGUSTING DIRTY PIG.”
Wall with red paint | Source: Shutterstock
The cops were useless. They took photos, filed a report, and shrugged like I’d wasted their time. And just as we pulled away from the crime scene, my eyes caught a flicker of pink in the rearview mirror.
There, across the street. The person stood perfectly still in the rain with that pink umbrella. The person just stood there. Watching. Not moving. And I couldn’t see their face.
“Did you see that?” I asked, heart racing.
Liam glanced back. “What?”
“There was—” I blinked. The figure was gone.
Just like every other time. But I know I saw it.
Her. Again.
A person with a pink umbrella | Source: Pexels
My best friend, Harper, was the only person who didn’t look at me as if I were spiraling out of control.
When even Liam started speaking to me in that soft, careful voice, like I was made of cracked glass, Harper was the one who grabbed my shoulders, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, “You’re not crazy. You’re overwhelmed. So we’re getting you out of the city before you implode.”
We went to a quiet cabin retreat in the woods. No internet, no noise, and definitely no shadowy figures with pink umbrellas.
Honestly? I was desperate. I would’ve agreed to a sensory deprivation tank at that point.
The cabin was cozy in that “Pinterest but also possibly haunted” way — wooden beams, blankets that smelled faintly of cedar, a tiny porch overlooking a lake so still it looked fake.
Cozy cabin in the woods | Source: Pexels
For the first time in weeks, my pulse wasn’t tap-dapping like a trapped bird. Harper made cocoa, her partner, Riley, lit a fire for the night, and I actually felt normal.
“So,” Harper said, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Tell me you’re starting to breathe again?”
“Yeah,” I exhaled. “I think… I think I actually am.”
She smiled widely, warmly, and familiarly. “Good. We’re gonna reset your whole nervous system out here.”
The next morning, they went grocery shopping. I stayed behind, wrapped in a blanket, watching dust float lazily through the sunbeams like the universe was finally letting me rest.
I should’ve left the closet closed. I should’ve never touched that door.
Woman in a bathroom rode drinking beverage | Source: Pexels
But a thump came from inside, just a subtle shift, like something falling, and curiosity tugged me forward.
I opened it, and the world cracked open.
Stacks of photos spilled out like dead butterflies.
Dozens or hundreds of pictures of me. Some were captured while I was walking to my car. Others, while sitting at my PC, doing laundry, and even crying on my balcony. Every incident from the past months was captured in sickening clarity. Some from angles so close I swore I felt my skin crawl.
Timestamps, locations, and handwritten notes scribbled in the margins.
“She won’t see this coming.” “Next time: closer.” “Don’t let her notice the umbrella.”
I dropped the photos. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and my heart wouldn’t stop beating so fast.
“Oh my god,” I whispered.
Photos scattered on the floor | Source: Pexels
Immediately, I heard a car engine hum outside. Harper’s laugh floated in, and Riley’s voice followed. I forced myself to the window, and there it was. In the back seat of their car, leaning casually against a tote bag full of groceries:
The pink umbrella. My pink umbrella. I froze for a second, and my vision tunneled.
They walked inside, bags rustling. “We got snacks!” Harper called cheerfully.
I stepped out into the living room, clutching one of the photos so tightly it crumpled. “Harper.”
Her smile faltered. “Hey…? What’s wrong?”
“Why,” I said, holding up the picture, “do you have these?”
Her eyes darted to the photo just for a split second. But it was enough. “What is that?” she laughed weakly. “Is that…are you going through the closets? You’re being weird—”
Embarrassed woman sitting on the sofa | Source: Pexels
“Don’t.” My throat was tight. “Don’t lie to me. I saw the umbrella.”
Riley froze near the counter. I could see Harper’s entire face drained of color.
“Okay,” I said, stepping back. “Start talking.”
Harper swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know what you think—”
“Stop LYING!” My voice cracked. “WHY were you following me? Why are there pictures of me? Why the hell is the umbrella in your car, Harper?”
Her mask fell apart. Completely.
Her shoulders jerked, her breath hitched, and a sound tore out of her — half sob, half laugh.
“You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” she whispered.
Guilty woman sitting on the sofa | Source: Pexels
My skin prickled. “Find out WHAT?”
Harper lifted her head, eyes glassy and wild.
“That I was trying to save you.”
“You were trying to save me?” I repeated, nearly choking on the words. “You trashed my home. You made me think I was being stalked. You gaslit me, Harper.”
“I had to,” she said, tears streaking down her face. “You weren’t supposed to find the photos, not yet. I was going to explain everything once it was over…once you saw the truth!”
“What truth? That you’re completely unhinged?” I snapped. “Do you hear yourself?”
Disappointed woman sitting on a sofa | Source: Pexels
She looked at me like I was the crazy one. “You don’t get it. You were changing. Drifting away. That guy…Liam…he’s not right for you. You stopped calling. You stopped laughing. You stopped being you.“
“No,” I said slowly, shaking my head. “I started living my life.”
Her face twisted, furious and broken. “Without me.“
There it was. The truth, ugly and pathetic, spilled out all over the floor like the photos still strewn behind me.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.
“You did hurt me,” I snapped. “You made me feel like I was losing my mind. Like I couldn’t trust reality. You made me afraid to sleep in my own home.”
Frustrated woman sitting on a sofa | Source: Pexels
Harper crumpled onto the couch, covering her face. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she said, her voice shaking. “To be the one left behind. You were always going to be something more…everyone knew it. I just wanted… to slow it down. Give us more time. I thought if you started to unravel a little, maybe you’d stay.”
“You sabotaged my life because you didn’t want to lose a friend?” I asked, stunned.
She looked up at me. “You’re more than a friend.”
The room went still.
Riley dropped the grocery bag they’d been holding. “What?”
“I didn’t mean—” Harper turned to Riley, panicked. “That’s not how it—”
Couple standing near the door | Source: Pexels
“No.” Riley held up his hand, stepping away. “You don’t get to play victim now. You stalked your best friend. You destroyed her life. For what? Because you were jealous? Because you wanted her all to yourself?”
“I loved her,” Harper cried. “You knew that. You always knew—”
“I thought it was a phase,” Riley said quietly. “But this? This is an obsession.”
He didn’t say another word; he just grabbed his keys and walked out.
Harper let out a guttural sob, like the sound had been buried inside her for years. I didn’t have the energy to comfort her after what she had put me through.
The police came later that day. I showed them the photos, the notes, and the umbrella, and they took it from there.
Police officers | Source: Pexels
I never saw Harper again after the hearing. Her family moved her back across the country. I heard through a mutual friend that she was in therapy. I hope that’s true. Because I meant what I said — I did heal.
The weeks that followed were hard. I questioned everything, every memory, every laugh, and every late-night sleepover, wondering when the line between love and obsession had blurred.
