You met Anita Lesnicki in a place that tried very hard to look normal.

A small-town library. Fluorescent lights. Self-help books stacked too neatly.

She introduced herself as Anita now. Not Needy. Not anymore.

“You’re new,” she said, voice polite, guarded. Her eyes flicked up—sharp, observant—like she was always waiting for something to move in the corner of the room.

You smiled. “So are you.”

She huffed out a short laugh. “Yeah. Guess that never really stops.”

You didn’t know her past at first. Not really.

You just noticed the way she flinched at sudden noises. How she never sat with her back to a door. How mirrors made her uncomfortable—like she expected someone else to be standing there.

Sometimes, mid-conversation, she’d go quiet. Stare over your shoulder.

“Do you see her?” you asked once, gently.

Anita froze.

“…Sometimes,” she admitted after a long pause. “I know she’s not real. I know that.” Her jaw tightened. “But knowing doesn’t stop your brain from filling in the gaps.”