The days had begun to blur, but the tension that had settled in her chest refused to loosen its grip. She moved through her daily routine mechanically—brushing her teeth, making coffee, getting dressed—but with each passing day, something felt more and more wrong. The stillness in her apartment had shifted from comforting to suffocating, as though the walls themselves were watching her.
She tried to ignore it, dismissing the unease as stress or exhaustion, but the feeling of being watched was becoming impossible to shake. It was always there, lurking just beyond her reach, a quiet presence that lingered no matter how much she tried to push it away.
This morning, as she stared into the bathroom mirror, the sense of wrongness clung to her like a second skin. Her reflection stared back at her, the same tired face she'd grown used to seeing. Dark circles framed her eyes—a reminder of the sleepless nights she'd been enduring.
She ran a hand through her hair, turning slightly to grab her towel. But as she moved, her reflection didn't.
Her breath hitched in her throat. She froze, eyes locked on the mirror. Her reflection stood still, watching her, even though she had moved. Time seemed to stretch. For a long, agonizing moment, neither she nor her reflection blinked. When it finally did, the movement was slow, deliberate, wrong. A chill surged through her, panic clawing at her chest.
"No, no, no," she whispered, stumbling back from the sink. She blinked hard, hoping to reset reality, and when she opened her eyes, her reflection was back to normal—moving as she did, perfectly in sync.
She gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles turning white as she fought to steady herself. Her heart raced, the rush of adrenaline making her feel lightheaded. Had that really happened?
Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, she forced herself to look at the mirror again. Everything seemed normal now. Her reflection followed her movements, just like it always had. But the unsettling feeling lingered, churning unease in her gut.
It was just a trick of the light, she told herself, trying to rationalize it. You're just overtired. But no matter how many excuses she gave herself, she couldn't deny what she had seen. Something had been wrong.
Avoiding her reflection, she wiped her damp hands on the towel and hurried out of the bathroom. Her thoughts raced as she made her way to the kitchen. Even the familiar comfort of making coffee felt hollow, the routine unable to ground her. The air in the house seemed heavier, oppressive, and she couldn't shake the sensation of eyes on her back.
Get through the day, she thought. Just get through the day.
***
Later that evening, she walked home from the store, her steps slower than usual, the grocery bags in her hands feeling heavier than they should. The cool night air offered no relief from the unease that had settled in her chest. The quiet streets around her were usually comforting, but tonight, they felt empty, hollow.
That's when the feeling hit her again—the sensation of being watched, creeping up her spine like cold fingers. She stopped mid-step, her heart hammering in her chest as her eyes darted around the dimly lit street. Shadows stretched long under the streetlights, shifting and twisting with the flicker of light.
She picked up her pace, her footsteps echoing in the silence. The faster she walked, the stronger the feeling became, as though something—or someone—was tracking her every move.
Then she heard it.
A whisper.
At first, she thought it was the wind, but as she strained to listen, the sound became clearer. Her name, carried on the breeze, soft but unmistakable. Fear coiled in her stomach, her pulse quickening as she scanned the empty street.
"Who's there?" she called out, her voice trembling, barely more than a whisper itself.
Only silence answered. The street was deserted, but the feeling of being watched intensified, settling deep in her bones. She tightened her grip on the grocery bags, her hands trembling, and forced herself to keep walking—each step quicker than the last. The whisper echoed in her mind, haunting her as the quiet street seemed to close in around her.
By the time she reached her apartment, she was breathless, her heart racing as if she'd been running. She fumbled with her keys, hands shaking, and slipped inside, locking the door behind her with a sharp click. Leaning against the door, she tried to calm her racing heart, her mind still spinning.
The apartment was as still and quiet as it had been that morning, but it felt darker now, heavier. She set the groceries on the counter, her breath coming in shallow gasps. What was happening to her? Was it all in her head? Was she losing her grip on reality?
It's just stress, she told herself again, though the words felt hollow. Just stress and lack of sleep. But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, she couldn't shake the deep, unsettling feeling that something was very, very wrong.
***
That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The darkness pressed in around her, the glow of the streetlight outside casting faint shadows across the room. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the fear clawing at her chest. But every time she closed her eyes, she felt it—the presence. Watching. Waiting.
Rolling onto her side, she pulled the blanket up to her chin, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her limbs. Sleep refused to come. Her mind buzzed with anxiety, her heart thudding in her chest. She couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was standing in the corner of her room, just beyond the edge of her vision.
Her breath hitched as she thought she saw movement in the corner of her eye. A shadow, shifting. A figure, standing just out of reach. Panic surged through her as she bolted upright in bed, her eyes scanning the room.
There was nothing. Just the empty, dark room.
But the whisper from earlier echoed in her mind, and the weight of eyes on her made her skin crawl. She knew she wouldn't sleep—not with the feeling that something was lurking, waiting for her to let her guard down.
Morning arrived without sleep.
Her body felt heavy, her movements sluggish as she climbed out of bed. The anxiety hadn't lessened. If anything, it had grown, burrowing deeper into her thoughts. She reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over Mia's contact.
Should I tell her? The thought of explaining everything—the whispers, the strange occurrences—felt overwhelming. What if Mia didn't believe her? What if she thought she was losing her mind?
After a long moment, she set the phone down. Not yet. She wasn't ready to share this—not when she didn't fully understand it herself.
Moving on autopilot, she walked to the bathroom. But as she stepped in front of the mirror, her heart plummeted.
Her reflection was already staring at her.