Chapter One
Her POV
I've always believed the mind is a dangerous place. Mine
especially.
Some mornings, I wake up with the taste of dread on my
tongue, heavy and bitter like burned coffee. Today is one of those mornings.
The moment my eyes open, there's that familiar tightness in my chest, like
something invisible sitting on top of me, daring me to move. I stare at the
cracks on the ceiling above my bed, tracing them with my eyes, pretending they
form patterns—maps to somewhere else, anywhere but here.
But no escape ever comes.
I finally pull myself up, my body sluggish, my skin cold
against the thin sheets. The small apartment feels suffocating today. The walls
close in a little more with each breath. The clock ticks mockingly on the
bedside table. 6:13 AM. Too early for the world to expect anything of me, but
too late to slip back into sleep without being swallowed by nightmares.
I drag myself to the bathroom. My reflection startles
me—there's something hollow about my eyes, like someone's scooped out the color
and left only darkness. I press my palm against the mirror as if I can push
through to the other side, to a version of myself who isn't afraid all the
time. But the glass stays firm, cold, and unfeeling, just like me.
I splash water on my face. Cold. Sharp. Like waking from a
dream I never remember but always regret.
The bruises on my arms are fading—yellowing like old
paper—but they whisper reminders of the choices I make. Choices I pretend
aren't mistakes. I touch them, tracing the soft edges of pain. It's easier to
feel this than to feel the emptiness.
I pull on a thick sweater, dark jeans, and my scuffed
boots—the same uniform I wear every day to blend in, to disappear. No makeup.
No jewelry. No smile. Just a ghost slipping through the world, unnoticed
The streets are damp and slick from last night's rain, the
air sharp with the scent of wet asphalt. I like this part of the city. The old
part. The forgotten part. The buildings here are like me—cracked, peeling,
holding themselves together with stubborn will alone. People avoid this
neighborhood, their eyes flicking away like the shadows in alleyways. But I
walk here every day. I feel safe among broken things.
As I pass the bakery on the corner, the old man behind the
counter gives me a nod. He never asks questions. I like him for that. Questions
are dangerous. They unravel things best left tight and locked away.
I stop at the small park across from the train station. The
iron benches are slick with dew, but I sit anyway. The cold seeps into my
jeans, makes my skin sting. A punishment. Or a reminder. I deserve both.
It's here, in the soft gray light of dawn, that I sense him.
Him.
I don't know his name. I've never heard his voice. But he's
always there. Watching. Following. Like a shadow that stretches just a little
too long behind me. I feel the weight of his gaze before I see him, before I
hear the soft crunch of gravel under his boots.
I keep my face forward, but my pulse stumbles in my throat.
My fingers curl tight in my lap.
He's standing at the edge of the park. Like always. A dark
figure in a black coat, his posture straight, still, unnaturally so. As if he
isn't entirely human. As if something darker wears the shape of a man.
I don't understand why he watches me. Why he never speaks.
Why he never moves closer.
But I think about him more than I should. At night, in the
quiet hours, I imagine what he'd sound like if he did speak. I imagine what his
touch would feel like—cold as winter, sharp as broken glass.
I shouldn't want that.
But I do.
The first time I saw him was three weeks ago. I was coming
home late from the library, my bag heavy with books I'd never read, my mind
fogged with exhaustion. He was standing across the street from my building,
under the broken streetlamp. Still. Silent. Watching.
I told myself I imagined it. That it was the darkness
playing tricks. But the next night, he was there again. And the next. And now
every day.
I should be afraid. A sane person would be terrified.
But I'm not.
I feel something else. Something worse
Curiosity.
I glance sideways, my heart stuttering. His face is shadowed
beneath the brim of his hood, but I can make out the hard line of his jaw, the
shape of his mouth—set in grim indifference. Like he's waiting for something.
For me.
Why?
What does he want?
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but I can't tear
my eyes away. I wonder if he knows what I think about in the quiet parts of the
night. If he can smell the fear on me. Or the longing.
I wonder if he knows I dream of falling.
The wind picks up, cold fingers tugging at my hair.
Somewhere down the street, a siren wails. A dog barks, sharp and panicked. The
city stirs, groaning under the weight of another day. But here, in this moment,
it's only him and me. Like the world has narrowed down to this thin thread of
connection between us.
I can't move. I can't breathe.
His head tilts slightly, as if he can hear my thoughts.
I look away, heart pounding hard against my ribs. Stupid.
Dangerous. Don't draw attention. Don't let him see.
But it's too late. I can feel the shift in the air. He's
noticed.
A car rumbles past. When I glance back, he's gone.
Vanished. Like smoke in the wind.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My hands
tremble in my lap.
Why does he keep coming back?
I stand on shaky legs, brushing dew from the back of my
jeans. My bag feels heavier as I sling it over my shoulder. The streets are
brighter now, the city waking, but the shadow of him lingers in my mind. Thick.
Heavy.
He'll be there tomorrow. I know he will.
I want him to be.
I hate that I want that.
I force myself to walk, one foot in front of the other, past
the crumbling brick walls, the boarded-up windows, the silent witnesses to my
quiet unraveling. My fingers brush against the cold iron fence that lines the
park. Rough. Rusted. Familiar.
Like him.
I don't know his name. I don't know his story
But I know this:
He sees me.
Really sees me.