I didn’t knock. I never do.

The alley behind her apartment is silent except for the buzz of a flickering streetlamp and the sound of my own breath behind the mask. I know her window—the second one from the fire escape, cracked open just enough for the night air to slip through. I stand there for a moment longer than I should, staring at the light under her door, wondering if she’s still awake.

I don’t need her to see me. That’s not why I came.

I slide the note under the window frame—small, plain, nothing that would draw attention. Just a folded piece of paper with words I couldn’t keep in my chest anymore.

I’m glad you’re still safe.

No name. No explanation. Just that.

It’s enough. It has to be.

Because if I let myself say more—if I let her know how many nights I’ve watched the shadows shift across her curtains, how many times I’ve walked away before I gave in—I wouldn’t be able to stop. And I’m not someone who should be let in anymore.

So I leave the note. And disappear before morning.