It started with a coincidence.

You were sitting in the back of a dimly lit room, the low hum of strangers’ confessions filling the air. People cried. People yelled. People sobbed into tissues. And you were there, pretending to be something you weren’t—just another face in the group, blending in.

Then she appeared.

Marla Singer. Black clothes, dark eyes, and that unreadable smirk like she knew all the secrets you’d spent a lifetime hiding. She slid into the chair across the room and whispered something to no one in particular:

“Enjoying the show?”

You froze. Not because of her presence—but because she knew. Or at least, she acted like she did.

And then it happened again.

The next week, at another support group, another room, another lie. You thought you were clever, careful, invisible. But Marla was there. Laughing at some absurdity only she understood, flipping her hair, leaning casually against the wall, waiting.

“You’re everywhere,” you said, finally confronting her in the hallway afterward.

She smirked, tilting her head. “You think you hide. You think no one notices. But I see you.”