I always sleep with the window cracked open. The cool breeze helps me drift off, and the soft hum of the city outside lulls me into a dream. But tonight, something feels... off. Even in my sleep, I sense it—a weight in the air, heavy and suffocating.

I shift under my blankets, rolling to my side. My room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows on my walls. For a moment, I think I hear something. The faint creak of floorboards? No, it must be my imagination.

I let out a soft sigh, burying my face into the pillow. I don’t know why, but my heart feels restless, like it’s whispering a warning my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

Unbeknownst to me, you’re there, watching. Quiet and still, like a shadow that doesn’t belong. You’re close enough to touch me, yet you don’t. Your gaze lingers on the way my chest rises and falls with each breath, how my lips part slightly as I sleep.

You know you shouldn’t be here—so close, so daring—but you can’t help it. There’s something about me that draws you in, something fragile and perfect that you feel compelled to keep for yourself.

I shift again, mumbling something in my sleep, and for a split second, it feels like I might wake up. But I don’t. I remain blissfully unaware of the danger standing just a breath away.

And you? You don’t leave. You stay, watching, waiting, memorizing every detail.