A coworker once commented on my lunch: “That smells incredible. Could you make me one?”
I laughed and said, “Sure—just return the container clean.”
The next day, he did.
But when I opened the container, my stomach turned. Inside was a note, scrawled in blocky letters on a torn paper towel:
“Get away from him before it’s too late.”
No name. No explanation.
For a second I thought it was a prank—some office joker being dramatic. But the shaky handwriting, the urgency of before it’s too late… it unsettled me.
I scanned the office. Andrei, my coworker, was at his desk, typing like nothing had happened. Or pretending.
I slipped the note into my bag and carried on as if everything was normal. But all day, I couldn’t shake it.
Andrei had only been with the company two months. Everyone liked him—friendly, competent, easy to talk to. We were close enough to chat often, but not romantically. Still… maybe too friendly?
That night, I showed the note to my roommate Mara.
“You’re sure he didn’t write it himself?” she asked. “Could be his weird sense of humor.”
“That makes no sense,” I said. “Why would someone ask for food and then slip a warning about themselves inside the container?”
Mara tilted her head. “Unless… someone else touched the container before he gave it back.”
That thought chilled me more.
The next day, I tested him.
“How was the chicken yesterday?” I asked casually.
Andrei grinned. “Amazing. You’re talented.”
I forced a laugh, then asked, “Did you pack the container back this morning?”
“Yeah,” he said, puzzled. “Why?”
“Just checking if the sauce leaked.”
He didn’t flinch. If he was lying, he was good at it.
Still, I stopped cooking for him. When he asked again a few days later, I claimed I was too busy.
And that’s when I noticed her.
Olivia. Quiet, reserved, almost invisible in the office. She had started around the same time as Andrei. They hardly interacted—or so I thought. But during lunch, I caught her staring at us. Not glancing. Staring. And when our eyes met, she turned away quickly, almost guilty.
I began to wonder: Was Olivia the one who left the note?
One evening, after most people had gone home, I approached her desk.
“Hey,” I said lightly. “Can I ask you something strange?”
She looked wary but nodded.
I pulled the note from my bag. “Did you write this?”
Her eyes widened. She looked from the paper to me, then whispered: “You found it.”
My pulse spiked. “So it was you?”
She nodded, glancing around nervously. “How else could I warn you?”
“Warn me about what?”
Her lips trembled. “Andrei. He’s not who he says he is.”
We met at a café after work. Olivia looked pale, burdened.
“I knew him before,” she confessed. “Different city. Different company. Back then, his name was Adrian. I didn’t recognize him at first—but it’s him.”
I frowned. “And?”
She lowered her voice. “A woman there got close to him. Like you. She started getting strange messages. Objects in her apartment would move. She thought she was losing her mind. Eventually, she quit. Reported him to police, but there was no evidence. He left town before they could build a case.”
I felt my stomach twist.
“I wanted to go to HR,” Olivia said. “But with nothing concrete, they’d think I was paranoid. So I warned you instead.”
It sounded unbelievable. Yet her fear was real.
And suddenly, things Andrei had said clicked into place—like when he casually mentioned my gym routine, though I’d never told him. Or when he asked oddly specific questions about where I lived. Back then it felt harmless. Now it felt calculated.
The next morning, I went to HR.
I didn’t accuse him directly. Just said I’d heard concerning things, felt uncomfortable, and wanted his background checked.
They assured me they’d handle it discreetly.
A week later, Andrei stopped coming to work.
That afternoon, HR called me in. Their expression was grim.
“Thank you for raising concerns,” they said. “We ran a background check. The man you know as Andrei applied under a false identity. In fact, he’s used multiple names for years. We found several harassment reports tied to him. Nothing stuck legally, but the pattern is disturbing. We’ve terminated him and notified law enforcement.”
I left the office trembling, realizing I might have dodged something terrifying.
That night, I told Olivia. She cried—relieved, but shaken.
Two weeks later, an email arrived. Just two words:
“Thank you.”
No sender I recognized.
Olivia got the same. We both blocked it immediately.
Life returned to normal, though changed. I became more cautious, more protective of coworkers, especially new women at the office. HR tightened background checks. Olivia and I grew close, bonding beyond fear—over books, dumb memes, and eventually weekly lunch swaps.
Six months later, we took a beach trip together. No shadows, no threats—just waves and laughter.
Then one morning, Mara called me to the TV.
“Uh… you should see this.”
A news anchor announced: “A man with multiple identities has been arrested for stalking and impersonation.”
The mugshot appeared.
It was him.
But the name wasn’t Andrei. Or Adrian. It was something else entirely.
Authorities said he’d used at least four aliases over six years, slipping into high-turnover jobs, charming people, then tormenting them before vanishing.
This time, an anonymous tip had led to his arrest. I had a feeling Olivia and I had something to do with it.
The lunchbox note saved us.
The lesson? Warnings may feel inconvenient, unbelievable, even absurd. But sometimes a torn paper towel, a whisper, or a gut feeling is all that stands between safety and danger.
Listen. Trust your instincts. And never be afraid to speak up—even with shaking hands.