Each step feels counted.
Out of the building.
Into the cold.
And the sky doesn’t feel like it used to.
It feels heavier.
Lower.
Like it’s watching too.
I don’t have a plan. I don’t know where I’m going. I just move like maybe that’ll be enough to break whatever curse I walkedinto. Like putting space between me and the apartment will loosen the thread that keeps pulling around my neck like a leash I never saw coming.
I make it two blocks before I stop.
Because I see it.
A car.
Black.
Idling at the kerb with tinted windows and the kind of presence that makes no sound but owns the silence anyway.
It doesn’t belong to the street. The street belongs to it.
It’s not marked.
Not obvious.
But it’s his.
I don’t need proof.
I just know.
And what’s worse — I don’t turn around.
I don’t run.
I just keep walking.
Slower now.
More aware of every step.
Like I’m performing for something I can’t see.
Like this whole street is a stage and he’s behind the curtain, watching me make the choice he already knew I would.
To keep going.
To keep pretending.
To not stop.
Because the moment I stop… I think he’ll open the door.
