I saw him again today.
Not in the hallway. Not where people could notice.
This time, it was outside. Alone.
It was late — later than I should have been walking home. Streetlights painted the pavement in that sick yellow glow, and every shadow looked like it might move if I stared too long.
I heard the steps before I saw him.
Slow. Even. Not rushing to catch up, not trying to hide. Just… there.
Following.
When I turned, he was standing a few feet away. Not close enough to touch me. Close enough to make it clear that he could.
The light caught his face just enough to show a faint smile — the kind that isn't warm. The kind you feel in your stomach before your brain knows why.
"You shouldn't walk alone at night," he said.
Not concerned. Just stating a fact.
Then he tilted his head, eyes dragging over me like he was taking inventory.
"I could walk you home."
It didn't sound like an offer.
I didn't answer. My throat was too tight.
When I turned away, his voice followed me — low, certain, impossible to ignore:
"I'll see you again, Meg."
And the worst part wasn't the promise in his voice.
It was that a part of me wanted him to keep it.