I used to think love was supposed to be simple. Easy. Comfortable. Something that filled the cracks in your soul without taking pieces of it away. I was young, naive, and hopelessly devoted. I thought I'd found that in him—my boyfriend. His name was Ethan, and he had a way of making the world feel safe, even when the city outside our tiny apartment balcony screamed in neon and sirens.
That night, we sat on the balcony with nothing but the hum of traffic beneath us and the faint glow of streetlights illuminating his face. I leaned against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, letting it calm the storm of doubts and anxieties that never seemed far from my mind. There was something about the way he held me—his arm tight around my shoulders, fingers brushing mine—that made me forget everything else, even for a moment.
"Do you ever think about the future?" he asked, voice low, almost hesitant, like he didn't want the answer to disappoint him.
I lifted my head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His eyes were fixed on the city, but I knew he felt me staring. "All the time," I admitted. "I think about us… where we'll be, what we'll be doing."
He smiled softly, that half-smile that always made my chest tighten. "And do you… do you ever worry?"
"Worry?" I echoed, tilting my head.
"About us," he murmured. His hand found mine, fingers intertwining. "That we'll get bored, or that… something might come between us. That one day, this won't feel enough anymore."
I laughed lightly, resting my head on his shoulder. "I don't think that will happen. Not to us. Not like this."
But even as I said it, a shiver ran down my spine. It wasn't from his words or his touch—it was from something I couldn't quite explain. A prickle at the back of my neck, a sense that someone, something, was out there beyond the balcony, beyond the glow of the streetlights. Watching. Waiting.
I shook it off. Of course, it was nothing. Just a trick of my imagination. Maybe the city played with your mind when the night was too quiet, when the hum of life slowed down. Maybe I was reading too much into it. But the unease lingered, curling in my stomach like smoke.
We spent the rest of the evening talking, planning, dreaming. We laughed about the trips we'd take, the apartment we'd one day own, the tiny rituals that would make our lives ours. And when he kissed me, soft and lingering, I thought for a brief moment that forever was real. That maybe, just maybe, love could be enough to shield you from everything else.
The first cracks didn't come as arguments or fights—they came in silence. Small, creeping silences that stretched longer each day, in his texts that went unanswered, in the way he sometimes didn't meet my gaze. I told myself it was stress, the city weighing down on him, but a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispered differently. He was slipping away, and I couldn't reach him.
And then there were the nights I walked home alone. My heels clicked against the wet pavement, echoing in the empty streets. At first, I told myself I was just imagining it—the feeling of eyes on me, the shadows that seemed to linger too long. But sometimes, just sometimes, I caught a glimpse of a figure in the distance, vanishing when I blinked. My pulse would spike, and I'd quicken my pace, telling myself it was nothing. That I was overthinking.
Even in my apartment, where I thought I was safe, I couldn't shake the sensation. On the balcony, in the kitchen, even in bed lying next to him—I felt watched, like some invisible thread connected me to someone out there. I didn't tell Ethan. How could I? I wanted him to be my safe harbor, and I didn't want him to see the cracks forming in my mind, the creeping fear that maybe the world wasn't as kind as I thought.
And yet, the unease persisted, unspoken, a shadow in the corners of my life.
It was subtle at first—a flicker of movement outside the window, a strange reflection in the glass, a lingering feeling behind me in the grocery store aisle. I told myself it was the city, the late hours, my imagination. But the truth, deep down, whispered that it wasn't imagination at all.
For now, though, I buried it. I held on to Ethan, to his warmth, to the illusion of safety. I wanted to believe that love could shield me from the shadows creeping into my life. But I couldn't. I didn't yet know that the shadows weren't just in the streets—they were coming for me. And when they arrived, nothing would feel safe again.
As I drifted off to sleep that night, curled against his chest, I felt the first flicker of what would become obsession—not mine, at least, but someone else's. And though I didn't realize it yet, my life was about to change in ways I could never have imagined.
The world I knew—the one where love felt simple, safe, and predictable—was gone. And something darker, hungrier, more dangerous, was waiting for me. Watching. Patient.