A car engine three blocks over. Bass thumping. A dog barking. Wind rattling a loose gate. The hiss of air brakes from a bus on Broad Street. My own breathing. My heartbeat.
It’s suddenlyloud.
Okay. That is new.
I focus on the sounds, letting them filter through me instead of bouncing off. And that little change—so fucking simple—changes everything.
The walk signal appears. I cross.
A shiver worms its way through me. I wasn’t cold ten minutes ago. But now? Now I’m freezing.
The temperature dropped, right? It’s February. Of course it’s cold.
But I don’t think that’s what this is.
Because I’m feeling it now. Not just experiencing cold—feeling the change. The shift. The difference between the block I was on and the block I’m on now.
And once you start feeling things this deeply, can you stop? Can you ever go back to just walking through the world without sensing its texture, its energy, its warnings?
Alex lives like this every day. No wonder she burns sage constantly. No wonder she needs crystals and tarot and rituals. She’s not being dramatic—she’s protecting herself from drowning in everyone else’severything.
Shaking my head, I cross over to the next city block. This one is a little darker. Fewer streetlights. More shadows.
And I feel it.
The difference.
Like walking inside after a storm. But I’m walking into a rundown neighborhood instead. My ears pop—that pressure change you get in planes or elevators or when something shifts.
The neighborhood changes. More residential. Brownstones and row homes. Cars parked tight against curbs. Fewer people out.
I turn a corner onto a darker block.
And there he is.
A man smoking a cigar on a stoop.
He’s older. Maybe sixty. Wearing a Flyers jacket despite the cold. The glow of his cigar lights his face in orange every few seconds. Salt-and-pepper beard. Tired eyes. The look of someone who’s lived on this block his whole life and seen everything twice.
He nods to me.
I nod back.
It’s a simple interaction. One I’ve had a thousand times before in this city. One I just had not ten minutes prior. That silent acknowledgment between people who share space. I see you. You see me. We’re both just trying to get through the night.
But this time?—
I feel it.
Not just see it. Not just acknowledge it and move on.
I feel his eyes on me. The weight of his attention. But not in a dangerous way. Not in the way that makes my skin crawl and my keys find my fist.
This is different.
He’s... watching over. Not watching me specifically. Just... present. Aware. Making sure the block stays safe while he finishes his smoke before going inside to whatever life waits for him there.
Protective. Tired but watchful. The kind of man who’d step out if he heard someone scream.
