A small part of me whispers that naming Sharov was more than bold—it was reckless. I know so little about him, only whispers and implications. A ghost with a face no one prints. A man no journalist touches.
Until I did.
My phone vibrates again. Fifty unread notifications. I answer a few texts, thankful for the noise. Thankful for normal distractions.
Then a message pops into the group chat:
Clara, someone said a reporter downtown is asking for your contact. A real one. This is huge.
My feet move on their own, drawn toward the subway, toward the rest of my life. I should be ecstatic. I should be planning next steps. I should be celebrating over cheap wine tonight.
Instead, I keep glancing over my shoulder.
By the time I reach the station, another comment rolls in.
You really named him? Respect.
Someone else replies underneath:
She has no idea what she’s done.
The warmth in my chest cools fast. I grip my phone tighter and head down the stairs, pushing through the turnstiles. People crowd the platform, chatting about midterms or weekend parties. Someone plays guitar near the far wall. The ordinary noise settles my nerves a little.
Maybe I’m imagining the tension. Maybe it’s just adrenaline making everything sharp.
The train screeches in, and I find a seat near the back. I scan the car automatically. A woman with a briefcase. A group of teenagers. A man in a brown coat scrolling through emails.
No one looks like they’re watching me.
Still, the unease doesn’t fade. It sits low in my stomach, small but persistent, as if some part of me knows something the rest refuses to admit.
When I get off at my stop, evening settles over the neighborhood. Streetlights flicker on in a dim glow. A cool breeze cuts through my coat, and I wrap my scarf tighter as I cross the street.
My building stands quiet and familiar. A comfort. A refuge.
I’m halfway down the street when my phone buzzes again. More messages. More mentions. Someone posts a thread analyzing the long-term political implications of my investigation. They tag me several times.
Another warm rush hits me, pride mixed with disbelief. This is exactly what I wanted—impact, momentum, a voice in a world that never listens to students.
Then I see a comment that sticks with me longer than the rest.
This girl is fearless. Or she doesn’t understand who she named.
A shiver runs along my arms.
My phone is warm in my hand from constant use. The article is still everywhere. People keep tagging me, arguing in the comments, dissecting every paragraph.
I should feel exhilarated. Instead, my shoulders keep tensing as if I am waiting for something to happen.
The usual buzz of traffic feels thinner. Fewer cars. Fewer voices. The sound of my heels on the concrete is sharp and steady. It makes me aware of every step, of every small echo bouncing off the narrow buildings on my block.
Halfway down the street, I slow down.
Someone is watching me.
The thought drops into my mind without warning. I look over my shoulder. A man smokes near the corner store, attention on his phone. A couple argues softly outside a shop. No one stares at me.
I tell myself I am being dramatic. I walk faster anyway.
