“I didn’t write it to be brave,” I say. “I wrote it because it was true.”
“That’s the part that scares everyone.” Eden reaches across the table and nudges my tray. “You poked a pretty big bear.”
“I didn’t poke anyone. I reported facts.”
“Facts about a man who kills people.”
I let out a slow breath. “I didn’t accuse him of murder.”
“You didn’t need to. Everyone filled in the blanks the second they saw his name.”
Her voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is clear. She’s not judging me. She’s worried.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Nothing’s happened.”
Eden doesn’t push, though she watches me for another second before changing the subject. We talk about class schedules and internships, but my mind drifts toward the window behind her.
A black car sits at the curb outside the student union. Engine running. The same one I saw yesterday morning. Same shape. Same deep tint on the windows.
Eden follows my gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“It’s probably just waiting for someone.”
She doesn’t believe that, but she lets it go.
The rest of the day drags. Every classroom feels colder than usual. Every whisper feels like it could be about me.
By late afternoon, even professors look at me differently. I spot two security officers lingering near the academic building doors. One stares at me for a second too long. Maybe it’s coincidence, but my skin tingles all the same.
When I leave campus, the black car is still there. This time it rolls forward as I step off the curb. I force myself not to react. My throat tightens, but I walk, head down, pace steady. It follows for half a block. Then two. Then three.
I stop at a busy intersection. My hand shakes slightly as I pretend to check a message on my phone. The car pauses at the corner, then merges into traffic and disappears.
I try to breathe normally, but my pulse drums through my ears.
I tell myself I’m overreacting. The city is full of dark cars. There’s no proof it’s the same one. There’s no proof it’s following me.
Still, the tension stays with me until I reach my apartment and lock every deadbolt twice. The quiet inside should soothe me, but the silence feels heavier than usual.
I make tea and sit at my desk, trying to lose myself in the next article I’m working on. It should be easy. Editing usually settles my mind, but tonight everything fights against me.
My Wi-Fi drops three times in the first hour. I reconnect, only for the connection to stall again. My laptop freezes in the middle of a paragraph, glitches, and restarts without warning.
I stare at the blank reboot screen, heart pounding harder with every passing second.
“Come on,” I whisper.
When the desktop finally loads, the fan whirs loud enough to drown out the ticking clock on my wall. I try to tell myself it’s normal. Old laptop. Bad service. Faulty connection. These things happen.
I’m almost convinced when my phone buzzes. It’s an unknown number.
My stomach knots. I hesitate before opening the message.
You shouldn’t work so late.
