Imagines with Jenna Ortega

Stalkers at Nevermore 3

The next morning, Nevermore bustled with the nervous energy of a new term. Y/N, already dressed for class, bent down to pull on her boots when she heard the faintest shffft at her door.

Another note.

She frowned, picking it up. The parchment was different this time—cleaner.

Unfolding it, her eyes skimmed the words:

"Y/N L/N—
You tower over everyone, but you think that makes you safe. It doesn't.
I've watched you and Wednesday, she is darkness. You don't belong in it. Not the way I do."

Y/N's brows furrowed, her grip tightening. She read on, the words growing more personal with each line.

"You don't deserve her. And soon... you'll understand why."

No signature. No playful tone. Just cold, deliberate ink.

Y/N exhaled slowly, crushing the note in her palm.

Someone watching her.

Y/N's hand lingered on the crumpled paper, her jaw tight. The words crawled under her skin like ice.

Her first thought was obvious: Agnes.

The orange-haired girl had already proven herself to be obsessive, invasive, unhinged. Notes, pranks, games—it fit her.

"Of course it's her..." Y/N muttered under her breath, stuffing the paper into her coat pocket.

But even as she walked out into the hallway, her heavy footsteps echoing against the stone floors, something gnawed at her.

Agnes's writing had been messy, erratic, almost childish. This note was clean. Sharp. Calculated.

Still, it was easier to believe Agnes was behind it. Easier than admitting there might be another set of eyes watching her and Wednesday.

She rounded a corner just as Wednesday emerged from her dorm, manuscript clutched beneath her arm like a weapon. Enid bounced at her side, bright and bubbly as always.

Wednesday's gaze landed on Y/N immediately. Her head tilted the slightest fraction, studying her with that unnerving intensity. "You look... unsettled."

Y/N straightened her shoulders, masking the unease. "Didn't sleep well," she lied.

Wednesday hummed, unconvinced, but didn't press—for now.

As the three of them moved toward class together, Y/N's hand brushed against her pocket, feeling the folded edge of the letter.

She told herself it was Agnes. It had to be Agnes.

But somewhere deep down, a colder thought whispered:

What if it wasn't?

The classroom buzzed faintly with the scratching of quills and the low murmur of students muttering to themselves as they copied from the board. Y/N sat near the back, her long legs tucked uncomfortably beneath the desk, a thick leather-bound book balanced in her hands.

She was so absorbed in the text she didn't notice the faint rustle beside her.

A folded note slid across her desk, quiet as a whisper.

No one was sitting close enough to have placed it there—at least, not that she'd seen. When she finally looked down, her stomach sank.

Another one.

She unfolded it under the cover of her book, her heart thudding against her ribs.

"You don't pay attention, Y/N. Not even when someone's right beside you.
You can't protect her if you're this blind."