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You don't turn around.
You stand in the hallway longer than you should, keys still in your hand, listening for a sound that never comes. The building smells like old paint and dust and someone else's cooking from hours ago. Familiar. Reassuring.
It doesn't help.
You close the door carefully, easing it shut so it won't make noise. The lock clicks into place with a finality that feels performative, like it's pretending to protect you.
You lean your forehead against the door and breathe.
One.
Two.
Three.
Your breathing sounds normal. That's good. Your heart is still racing, but that's expected. Anyone would be shaken after walking home alone at night and letting their imagination spiral.
That's all this is. Imagination.
You straighten and turn on the light.
The apartment comes into view all at once, harsh and yellow and real. Couch. Coffee table. Shoes by the wall where you always leave them. Nothing out of place.
Except—
You stop.
The shoes are aligned too neatly. You're careless when you come home. You kick them off, let them land where they land. You've told yourself a thousand times you'll start being more organized, but you never do.
These are placed side by side. Parallel. Thoughtful.
You stare at them until your eyes start to burn.
You tell yourself you must have done it earlier. Maybe this morning. Maybe yesterday. Memory isn't perfect. Everyone forgets small things.
Still, you don't move your feet. You don't step past the shoes.
You listen.
The apartment hums softly. Refrigerator. Old pipes. The distant sound of traffic outside. Normal noises. The kind of sounds that mean you're alone.
Alone.
You step inside and lock the deadbolt. Then the chain. You test the handle once, twice. Solid.
Only then do you take your shoes off.
You leave them exactly where they are.
The light in the living room flickers once before stabilizing. Your shoulders tense automatically, but nothing else happens. No shadows move. No shapes detach themselves from corners.
You exhale and let yourself believe—just a little—that you're safe.
You move deeper into the apartment, turning on lights as you go. Kitchen. Bathroom. Bedroom. Each room reveals itself without resistance.
Everything is where it should be.
Almost.
In the kitchen, a glass sits in the sink. You don't remember using it. You rinse dishes immediately; you hate leaving them overnight. The glass is cloudy, like it held something thicker than water.
You pick it up.
It's warm.
You freeze.
The warmth isn't residual heat from the room. It's localized. Recent. As if someone held it not long ago and set it down carefully, quietly.
You drop the glass into the sink. It clinks loudly, the sound sharp enough to make you flinch.
You wait.
Nothing reacts.
You turn the tap on and rinse the glass until it's cold, scrubbing harder than necessary, like pressure can erase the thought forming in your head.
Someone else was here.
No.
You were here.
You just don't remember.
That explanation feels thin, but you cling to it anyway. You dry your hands and check the clock on the microwave.
3:19 a.m.
You don't remember it being that late.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket.
This time, you check it.
No new notifications.
The screen goes dark again, reflecting your face back at you. For a moment, the angle is wrong. Your reflection looks like it's watching you rather than copying you.
You tilt the phone.
The reflection corrects itself.
You shove the phone into your pocket and step away from the counter.
In the bathroom, you wash your hands again. The mirror above the sink is slightly fogged, even though you haven't used hot water yet. A faint oval, as if someone stood close and breathed on it.
You wipe the mirror with your sleeve.
The fog comes away easily, revealing your face beneath. Pale. Tired. Your eyes look darker than usual, the skin around them bruised with exhaustion.
"You're fine," you say out loud.
Your voice sounds steadier than you feel. The words echo strangely, lingering half a second longer than they should.
You listen for a response.
There isn't one.
You shower quickly, keeping the curtain partially open, eyes flicking toward the doorway every few seconds. The water helps. Steam fills the room, dulling the edges of your thoughts.
When you step out, the mirror is completely fogged over.
Too fogged.
The steam is thick, opaque, like a wall. You reach for a towel—and stop.
There are lines in the fog.
Finger-drawn.
Five vertical streaks, unevenly spaced, dragged downward as if someone tested the surface and then thought better of finishing whatever they started.
They're on the outside of the glass.
Your chest tightens painfully.
You don't touch the mirror. You don't wipe it away. You dry off mechanically, avoiding looking too closely at the bathroom walls, the corners, the space behind the door.
When you leave the bathroom, you turn the light off and don't look back.
In the bedroom, the lamp casts a small island of light around the bed. The rest of the room recedes into shadow. You hesitate at the threshold, suddenly aware of how dark the corners are.
You've lived here long enough to know every sound, every shape. There's nothing new in this room.
Still, you scan it carefully.
Closet door closed.
Window locked.
Bed undisturbed.
You sit on the edge of the mattress and feel it dip under your weight. The sheets are cool. Too cool for a bed that should still hold some warmth from earlier.
You don't think about that.
You undress quickly and slide under the covers, pulling them up higher than usual, until they rest just below your chin. The fabric smells faintly different tonight. Not unwashed. Just… not you.
You lie on your side, facing the wall.
You keep your eyes open.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Time feels unreliable now, stretching and compressing without warning. Your breathing slowly evens out despite your efforts to stay alert.
Your body wants sleep.
You fight it.
You focus on the small details—the hum of the refrigerator through the wall, the distant siren somewhere far away, the tick of the clock in the living room.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
There's a pause.
Then—
Tick.
The rhythm changes. Subtle, but unmistakable. The clock hesitates before resuming, like it lost track of where it was.
You swallow.
You become acutely aware of the space behind you.
The bed creaks softly.
Not enough to suggest weight. Just enough to suggest adjustment.
You don't move.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, each beat loud in your ears. You tell yourself beds make noise. Buildings settle. Muscles twitch.
The mattress depresses slightly at your back.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
You hold your breath.
The pressure remains.
Something warm brushes against the back of your neck—not a touch, not quite. More like the air moving when someone leans closer.
A voice forms behind you.
It doesn't speak yet.
It waits.
You squeeze your eyes shut and count silently, desperate for sleep to take you before whatever this is decides to finish arriving.
One.
Two.
Three.
Behind you, something inhales.
Deep.
Slow.
Like it's learning how you breathe.
And you understand, with a clarity that makes your stomach twist, that whatever followed you home is not in a hurry.
It has all night.
And you are exactly where it wants you.
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