When I turn onto my block, I stop for a moment. A black car sits at the curb near my building, engine running. Theheadlights are off, but a low hum rises from it. The windows are tinted deep. I cannot see the driver.
The car is too sleek for this street. It has clean lines and a shine that does not match the chipped paint on the nearby doors. The plate is local. That does not make it less strange.
I stand there for three long seconds. The back of my neck prickles. I cannot shake the feeling that someone inside the car is looking at me. Not casual interest. Me, specifically.
I tell myself a dozen explanations in quick succession. Rideshare. Someone waiting on food delivery. A neighbor with a new car. None of them feel quite right. I do not want to stay outside long enough to figure it out.
I cross the sidewalk with brisk steps, pull the front door open, and head straight for the stairs. My pulse beats in my ears. I resist the urge to look back through the glass. I do not want to confirm anything. I need to be inside.
Each flight of stairs feels steeper. The air smells faintly of dust and detergent. My keys are in my hand before I even reach my floor. I unlock my door, slip inside, and shut it with more force than necessary. The lock slides into place. I engage the deadbolt and the chain, then stand there for a moment with my palm flat against the wood.
The apartment is quiet. My small kitchen, my couch, my unmade bed in the corner. Everything looks ordinary. My heartbeat takes its time slowing.
I tell myself to relax. If someone wanted to do more than watch, they had time downstairs. The thought is not comforting.
I drop my bag on the chair, kick off my shoes, and move on autopilot. I put water on for tea. I change into sweatpants and a soft T-shirt. I light a candle near the window, the familiar sweet scent filling the room.
I sit on the bed and pull my laptop onto my knees. The article’s stats have climbed again. More shares. More comments. A few small outlets have written short pieces about it already. My inbox has three requests for interviews. One comes from a name I recognize from television.
I scroll and scroll, trying to focus on the words on the screen instead of the strange heaviness in my chest.
In the middle of praise and outrage, someone comments,She is brave.Underneath, another user replies,Or dumb. People like Sharov do not forget.
I lock my jaw and keep reading. I want to care only about the story, about the impact, about the piece of corruption I dragged into the light. I do not want to think about men in dark cars outside my building.
When I finally put my laptop aside, my eyes ache. I lie down and draw the blanket over my shoulders. The room glows in the low light of the candle and the streetlamp. I stare at the ceiling and listen to the faint noises outside, waiting for something specific that never comes.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. My eyes close. Sleep pulls me under in fits.
I dream of my doorway.
I’m in bed, but I cannot move. Someone stands in the open doorway of my bedroom. The hall light behind him is too strong, and his face is nothing but shadow. Only his eyes show through, a bright, pale blue that cuts through the dark. They do not soften. They do not narrow. They stay fixed on me.
I try to speak, but my throat feels locked. My chest aches with the effort to breathe. His hand is on the doorframe. He does not step closer. He does not leave either. He simply waits, as if this has always been his place.
When I finally jerk awake, my heart pounds. Sweat sticks to the back of my neck. The candle has gone out. The room is gray with early light. For a moment, the dream clings to me so tightly that I check the doorway.
No one stands there.
I exhale and wipe my palms on the blanket. My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I blink at the screen.
One missed call from the university office. One voicemail. One email from my professor with the subject line:We need to talk. Immediately.
My stomach tightens. I swing my legs out of bed and listen to the voicemail. The administrative assistant’s voice sounds polite and strained. They want me in the department office as soon as possible.
I dress quickly, my thoughts churning. I knew this was coming. I did not expect it to feel like being summoned to a courtroom.
Campus looks different in the morning light. More people. More noise. Yet the unease from last night seems to overlay everything. I head straight to the journalism building, my bag bouncing against my hip.
My professor waits for me in his office, door already open. His hair is messier than usual. He does not bother with small talk.
“Sit down,” he says.
I sit.
He closes the door and leans against his desk instead of taking his chair. His eyes search my face, like he’s checking for cracks.
“You saw my email,” he says.
