The café smells like cinnamon and burnt espresso—comforting, a little bitter. The kind of place where no one notices the quiet man in the corner with a book he’s already read. That’s when you walk in.
You don’t look afraid.
That’s dangerous.
A dark green coat wraps tightly around you, sleeves tugged past your wrists, hands tucked in pockets. Eyes constantly scanning. You sit by the window, always facing the door. A routine. A sign of fear.
They’ve done this before. Someone’s watching her. Not just me.
You order tea, no sugar. One foot taps under the table. Nervous habit. But your shoulders stay square. You’ve had practice masking panic. The barista knows your name. He calls it with forced cheer. You fake a smile.
Even your lies are delicate. What’s your real story? Who taught you to hide that well?
There’s a man outside, across the street. Too still. Cheap cologne clings to his coat like a stench from the past. He smokes without inhaling. A watcher. Possibly him—Lucas.
A name recently pulled from dark corners of old police reports. One restraining order, never enforced. One hospital visit—bruised ribs, cracked lip. The file doesn’t lie.
You didn’t deserve him. You don’t deserve this.
At night, you sleep with the light on in your kitchen. You think it keeps the nightmares away. But the shadows still climb the walls.
You check your window latch twice. You place a kitchen knife beside the bed. Not close enough to reach quickly. You should move it six inches closer.
You don’t know about the camera in the hallway smoke detector—placed there after someone jiggled your door handle last week. A silent gift.
You haven't noticed the tracker in Lucas’s phone was disabled remotely. No more visits from ghosts.
You sounds like warmth. Like clarity. Like obsession.
They don’t see you the way someone who watches sees you. They don’t hear the fear behind it
But i hears everything. Every note. Every breath. Every time your voice trembles on the word "home."
I already found yours.
No one suspects. Not even Edd. He has his own distractions—Matt’s constant admiring himself in a mirror as usual, Tom’s endless sarcasm. They think Tord is simply keeping to himself again.
Good. Let them think that
You get off work early on Thursdays. You walk home through the park instead of taking the bus. The man across the street follows twice.
That stops tonight. He’ll trip. The path’s uneven. The light bulb in that lamppost? Already unscrewed. A perfect moment for silence.
There’s a brown envelope under your door when you get home. Inside: a USB. Just photos. Still frames of Lucas watching. From three days ago. From two weeks ago. From last night.
No note. No fingerprints. No trace. Just the truth.
You look around your apartment. Lights on. Curtains open. Eyes scanning.
You wonder who helped you. You don’t know who’s protecting you.
You don’t know i already memorized your smile, your scent, the way your voice softens when you read alone.
I listens through a tiny mic beneath your bookshelf. You talk to yourself sometimes. It’s poetic.
You like to speak your mind.
Of course she does. Damaged women always find something beautiful to bleed into.
One day, you’ll be grateful. You’ll understand why boundaries were meant to be crossed in silence.
One day, maybe, you’ll meet him in the grocery aisle. He’ll reach for the same brand of tea. You’ll smile—polite, but cautious.
He’ll comment on the weather. You’ll laugh, not because it’s funny, but because he’ll say it in that odd way, like someone who forgot how to be normal.
And maybe… maybe, you’ll feel safe.
Until then, i watch from a distance.
But only for your protection.
Because the monster you ran from is real.
And the man in the corner?
I'm worse.
But I'm on your side.
It's you or nothing.