“You’re still doing this?” she mumbles, voice rough and half-awake.
I don’t answer.
She knows I am.
Instead, I reach for the mug I poured for her ten minutes ago, back when I first heard her tossing under the blankets. I hand it over without a word.
“Thanks,” she mutters, then sits across from me, folding her legs up onto the chair like she used to when she was little.
“You check outside?” she asks, not meeting my eyes.
I nod. “Clear.”
She lets out a breath, but it doesn’t sound like relief. Just something to fill the silence.
“You think he’s still out there?”
I meet her gaze. “He never left.”
She doesn’t respond at first. Just sips her coffee slowly. Then, voice barely above a whisper: “Are you really sure about that?”
I study her. The bags under her eyes are still there but softer now. Her shoulders are still tense but some movement rangereturned to them. She seems so much better and so much worse at the same time.
And I know the reason for that. Sabine’s retreating.
Not because she’s afraid of pain. Because she’s tired of being afraid of pain.
So, she’s playing a convenient little game where she’s pretending her stalking’s over. That the silence means safety.
I wish I could let her believe it.
Fuck, I wish it was true.
But I’m not a liar.
“I’m sure,” I say quietly.
And I mean it. Down to the marrow.
Sabine exhales, sets her coffee down, and lets her eyes flick around the kitchen like she’s counting the bolts in the walls. Then she looks at the clock and stands.
“I’m gonna get ready. Eli’s picking me up.”
“I know,” I say. “And if he ever decides not to, he knows exactly what’s coming.”
She pauses. Her fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the counter. Then she sighs.
“I kind of regret ever telling you about this, you know?”
“I know,” I say again. “But I don’t.”
She glances over her shoulder once, then disappears down the hall.
Her footsteps are soft, but I count each one. Every step. Just like I’ve done every morning since this started. When the bathroom door clicks shut, I finally let myself move.
The hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the kitchen clock fill the silence she left behind. The kettle lets out one last dying hiss. And under all of it, the pressure in my chest sits like a stone. Same place it’s been since she showed me the first message.
I drain the rest of my coffee, rinse the mug, and place it in the rack.
