Possession - By Syazalina Farahin Binti Jefferdin

Written By: Syazalina Farahin Binti Jefferdin

Category: Short Story, Thriller

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In her thrilling short story "Possession," Syazalina Farahin Binti Jefferdin delves into the complexities of grief and the hidden truths that lurk beneath the surface. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this submission captures the essence of suspense and psychological depth within the Short Story category. With a narrative that questions the nature of possession and freedom, Syazalina invites readers into a world where appearances can be deceiving.

About the Work

"Possession" masterfully weaves a tale of suspense, where the protagonist navigates through the unsettling aftermath of a loved one's death. The story explores themes of grief, manipulation, and the haunting presence of unresolved emotions. Syazalina's literary style is evocative, employing vivid imagery and a gripping narrative that keeps readers on edge. This psychological thriller challenges perceptions and reveals the complexities of human emotions and relationships.

Possession

Original Submission by Syazalina Farahin Binti Jefferdin

Syazalina Farahin Binti Jefferdin

Possession

They say a predator waits. Most people imagine stillness, a pause before violence, a breath held in tall grass. But waiting doesn’t always look like that. Sometimes it moves quietly, learns the shape of a room, memorises patterns. Sometimes it waits by becoming part of the landscape, until the prey forgets it was ever alone.

By the time they call it a suicide, I have already learned how to speak about him in the past tense. It happens faster than I expect, the way language adjusts before the heart does. Was. Had been. Used to. The grammar of loss settles into place even while my body still moves through the world like it expects him to walk back through the door.

People say his name carefully, like it might bruise me. They say things like he was struggling and no one saw it coming, and I nod because the story arrives fully formed, mercifully tidy. It’s easier to accept something complete than to ask questions that don’t have answers. I cry when they expect me to. I go quiet when silence is required. I learn very quickly what grief is supposed to look like.

Jonah doesn’t.

At the funeral, he stands rigid beside the coffin, jaw clenched so tightly I wonder if it hurts. His black tie sits crooked against his collar, like he tied it too fast and never checked his reflection. He doesn’t look at the flowers or the framed photograph or the casket itself. He stares at the floor, at the seam where the carpet meets the wall, like he’s memorising it.

When we leave the chapel, he stands too close to me, not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat of him through the sleeve of my dress. “You okay?” he asks. His voice isn’t gentle. It’s scraped raw by sleepless nights and thoughts that won’t settle.

“I don’t know,” I say. It’s the only honest answer I have.

Caleb drives me home. He’s been in my life for years, long before my fiancé, long before the ring and the apartment and the future that once felt inevitable. Caleb is steady where others are emotional, practical where others hesitate. He doesn’t ask questions on the drive. The radio stays low. He stops at a red light that lasts longer than it should.

When we reach my place, he follows me inside without asking. “You should eat something,” he says, already moving toward the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You won’t be,” he replies calmly. “But you should eat anyway.”

That’s how Caleb is. He doesn’t argue. He decides.

Grief, I learn, is not just something you feel. It’s something other people manage around you. In the weeks after the funeral, people drift away in predictable stages. At first, there are messages every day, thinking of you, let me know if you need anything. Then every few days. Then only on weekends. Eventually, the messages stop altogether, like grief has an expiration date no one tells you about.

Caleb doesn’t leave. He texts me every morning, shows up with groceries I didn’t ask for, fixes things around my apartment I hadn’t noticed were broken. He replaces a burnt-out lightbulb in the hallway, tightens a loose cabinet hinge, buys a coffee mug identical to the one I chipped weeks ago. He remembers things about me that I didn’t know were memorable.

Jonah comes by sometimes too, though less often. When he does, he sits stiffly on the edge of my couch, hands clasped together like he doesn’t trust them not to shake. His eyes flick to Caleb whenever he enters the room, his shoulders tightening like something is being pulled too taut.

“You don’t think it’s strange?” Jonah asks one afternoon, after Caleb steps outside to take a call.

“What?”

“That he’s here all the time.”

I hesitate. The pause is small, but Jonah notices it. “He’s just helping,” I say finally.

Jonah lets out a short, humourless laugh. “That’s what you think.”

Before I can respond, Caleb comes back in, phone tucked away like the conversation never mattered. Jonah doesn’t finish his thought. He leaves soon after, shoulders tense, eyes avoiding mine.

The official story settles quickly. Suicide. Depression no one noticed. A note that makes sense if you don’t look at it too closely. I try not to look too closely. Every time I think about my fiancé, I remember how tired he had seemed lately, how distant, how easy it would be to believe something inside him had quietly given up. I replay our last conversations, searching for signs I missed, wondering how many people do this; how many endings only make sense in hindsight.

Except Jonah doesn’t believe it.

“He wouldn’t have done it,” Jonah tells me one evening, standing in my doorway. “He had plans. He called me the night before.”

My chest tightens. “People can hide things.”

“Not like that,” he says. “Not from me.”

Caleb appears behind me, close enough that I feel his presence before I see him. “You shouldn’t push her,” Caleb says evenly. “She’s healing.”

Jonah’s eyes snap to him. “I’m telling her the truth.”

Caleb smiles. It’s polite, controlled, almost kind, but there’s something cold beneath it. “Your truth isn’t always helpful.”

After Jonah leaves, Caleb’s hands settle on my shoulders. “You don’t need that kind of doubt right now,” he says. “It keeps you stuck.”

I want to believe him. For a while, I do.

The first thing that unsettles me is small. Caleb mentions an argument I had with my fiancé weeks before his death; something about money, something about timing. It isn’t the kind of detail anyone else would remember, and it isn’t something I told the police.

“I don’t remember telling you that,” I say.

“You did,” Caleb replies easily. “You were overwhelmed.”

I let it go.

Then he references the note, specific wording, certain phrases, details the police never released. When I ask if he read it, he hesitates for just a fraction of a second before saying I told him about it. I don’t remember doing that either.

Jonah starts showing up more often after that, unannounced and restless. One night, standing in my kitchen, he asks, “Did he ever talk to Caleb?”

“My brother,” he clarifies when I don’t answer right away. “He mentioned him. Said Caleb asked a lot of questions.”

When I bring it up to Caleb, his response is immediate. “He was unstable,” he says. “He latched onto people.”

“That’s a cruel thing to say about someone who’s dead.”

Caleb looks at me then, really looks at me. “He hurt you,” he says softly. “Why do you keep protecting him?”

Something shifts after that. I start replaying memories I’ve avoided. Caleb encouraging distance. Caleb always knowing where I am. Caleb stepping into every space my fiancé once occupied, seamlessly and without resistance. The truth doesn’t arrive all at once. It creeps in quietly, patiently, until there’s nowhere left to put it.

Jonah confirms it for me without meaning to. “There was bruising,” he says one afternoon, voice shaking. “They dismissed it. Said it was part of the fall.”

I think of Caleb’s hands; strong, steady, always there.

When I confront him, it isn’t dramatic. We sit at my kitchen table, sunlight slanting across the floor.

“You didn’t want him gone because he was bad for me,” I say. “You wanted him gone because he was in the way.”

Caleb doesn’t deny it. “He was hurting you,” he says. “And you wouldn’t leave.”

“So you decided for me?”

“I gave you freedom,” he replies calmly.

My stomach twists. “You killed him.”

Caleb leans forward, voice gentle. “I stayed. Everyone else left. That has to count for something.”

That’s when I understand. Love was never what he offered me. It was possession, dressed up as care.

Jonah is at my door late that night. He doesn’t knock. He pounds. “You need to leave,” he says when I open it. “Now.”

“What?”

“He’s not right,” Jonah says. “Caleb. I think he’s going to hurt you.”

I step aside to let Jonah in. The apartment is quiet. The kitchen lights are on. The smell hits first; metallic, sharp. Jonah freezes.

Caleb is slumped against the cabinets, legs folded wrong beneath him, a knife buried deep in his chest. His eyes stare at nothing. His face is strangely calm.

“Oh my God,” Jonah whispers, then turns to me. “Rosa-”

I don’t scream. I don’t cry. “I didn’t know what else to do,” I say quietly. “He came here angry. He said you were trying to turn me against him.”

In the days that follow, people tell me I was brave. Jonah doesn’t come by anymore, but he texts once to say he’s glad I’m safe, that he wishes things had ended differently for all of us. I tell him I do too. I start sleeping through the night again. I pack away the black dress from the funeral, return the borrowed casseroles, answer messages without rehearsing my responses first. For the first time in weeks, nothing feels urgent. Nothing feels like it’s watching me. I begin to believe the worst part is over. The police believe me. They believe the fear, the history, the girl who stayed when everyone else left.

Weeks later, when the apartment is quiet again, I stand alone in the kitchen and wash a glass I don’t remember using. I watch the water swirl down the drain and think about a different drink weeks ago; pills dissolving without a sound, a plan that relied on timing and probability. My fiancé was never as good as he pretended to be; there were lies, other women, a life already slipping away from me, and I told myself I was only making the ending easier. The accident was supposed to finish it. Caleb only hurried it along.

People say grief changes you. They say trauma turns you into someone unrecognisable.

They are kinder than the truth.

A predator doesn’t always look like one.

Sometimes, she waits.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious platform that celebrates literary talent from around the world. Focusing on various categories, including Poetry, Short Story, and Creative Writing, the competition seeks to inspire and showcase diverse voices and narratives. It is a space where creativity flourishes, and writers are encouraged to explore and express their unique perspectives.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Syazalina Farahin Binti Jefferdin for her compelling short story "Possession." As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, her work adds a powerful voice to the thrillers category. We appreciate her contribution and look forward to seeing more of her captivating storytelling in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.