When I first saw the writing, I thought it was some weird promotion or prank.
“He is not who you think he is. PS check your door camera!”
It was scrawled in blue ink on the inside of the pizza box lid, like someone had written it in a hurry—pen strokes uneven, almost trembling.
My roommate, Dax, was in the shower when I found it. He’d answered the door earlier and said, “Pizza’s here!” like nothing was off.
We’ve lived together for six months now. He’s quiet, pays rent on time, always does his share of the cleaning. We even split a Netflix account. Nothing about him ever seemed… wrong.
But the second I saw that message, something shifted in me.
I grabbed my phone and opened the doorbell cam app. I scrubbed back through the footage, expecting to see a regular delivery guy. Instead, I froze.
It was a girl—maybe late teens, early 20s—with a messy ponytail and a red delivery cap pulled low. She kept glancing behind her as she walked up. And when Dax opened the door, she looked him dead in the eye.
She didn’t say anything. Just handed over the box, held eye contact for half a second too long… and mouthed something.
I replayed that three-second clip at least fifteen times. I’m almost sure she said: “Get out.”
Now I can’t stop thinking.
Why didn’t she just call the police if something was really wrong?
Why me?
And what does she mean, he’s not who I think he is?
I looked at Dax differently tonight. When he joked about watching that true crime doc, I smiled, but I felt sick.
He’s asleep now. I can hear him snoring through the wall.
And I’m just lying here, holding that empty pizza box like it’s a warning label from a future I don’t want to meet.
I didn’t sleep that night.
By sunrise, I’d convinced myself I was being ridiculous. Maybe she was just a weird delivery driver, trying to go viral with some TikTok stunt. But that didn’t explain the fear in her eyes. That didn’t explain the way her hands shook as she handed off the box.
Around 10 a.m., while Dax was at his weekend art class (he’s been working on some huge acrylic thing in our living room), I made a decision.
I searched his room.
I know how that sounds. But it didn’t feel like snooping. It felt like… survival.
At first, nothing stood out—just charcoal sketches, a few paint-smeared clothes, and a small box of letters from his ex. But tucked under his mattress was something I wasn’t prepared for:
A second phone.
It wasn’t locked. The wallpaper was a photo of him and a girl I’d never seen before—same delivery hat, same face.
My heart dropped.
The messages told me everything. Her name was Alina. And she wasn’t just some pizza delivery girl. She was his sister.
But that wasn’t the shocker.
She thought Dax was missing.
Apparently, two years ago, Dax (real name: Rowan) had dropped out of college after a “breakdown,” according to their texts. He left town, cut contact with everyone, and vanished from her life. His parents had filed a missing persons report. Alina had been looking for him ever since.
And then, by chance, she found him on a Reddit thread a few months ago—posting under a different name, sharing art under a pseudonym. He wasn’t missing. He was hiding.
From what, I didn’t know.
There was one line in the texts I can’t get out of my head:
“I know what happened to Owen. You can’t just pretend it never happened.”
Who the hell was Owen?
Before I could read more, the apartment door creaked open.
It was Dax—home early.
I panicked, slammed the drawer shut, and tried to act normal. He walked in, smiled, asked if I wanted to get brunch. My hands were still shaking. I told him I wasn’t feeling well.
That night, I texted the number from the second phone.
Me: “Why did you write in the box?”
Alina: “Because I knew he wouldn’t hurt you if you were just his roommate. But he’s not stable. He snapped before.”
Me: “What happened to Owen?”
Alina: “That’s not my story to tell. But if he starts getting weird—leave.”
I never got the full story. I never found out what Dax did.
But two weeks later, he moved out. Said he was going to “get his head right.” No forwarding address. Just… gone.
Sometimes, the people around us are carrying things we’ll never understand. And sometimes, the most dangerous secrets aren’t the ones shouted—but the ones whispered in passing, on the inside of a pizza box.
If your gut says something’s off—listen.
Even if the handwriting is messy.
Even if the warning makes no sense at first.
Even if it means searching through someone’s closet when you really don’t want to know what’s in there.
Because it’s better to feel paranoid… than to be blindsided.
Stay curious. Stay cautious.
And maybe check your pizza box next time.
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