As I weave through familiar sidewalks, that sensation seeps into me again. A wolf at my heels, and something bigger at its heels, saving me from jaws in the dark, I think poetically. It doesn’t always make a lot of sense to think that way, but it’s probably the only thing keeping me sane, so I hold on to it. That thin layer of protection.
Even if it’s only in my mind, it’s better than nothing.
When I reach my building, the familiar smell of dust and old paint hits me, and for a moment I almost relax. Almost. My door looks the same as always, the lock intact, the mat straight.
Too straight, I realize.
The thought hits me hard enough that my hand stills on the key. The air in the hallway feels thicker all of a sudden, like it’s pressing back against my chest. My mouth goes dry, my pulse kicking up so fast I can feel it in my throat. I force myself not to turn around, not to look down the stairs, because whatever I imagine behind me will be worse than what’s actually there.
Something pale near the frame catches my eye anyway, pulling my focus down despite myself. I swallow, the sound loud in my ears, and only then do I let myself really see it.
A white rose.
Fresh, trimmed, stripped of thorns.
White roses don’t mean innocence. That’s the lie people like to sell. In the language that actually matters, they’re about ceremony. Commitment. Vows you can't go back on.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs, and my brain goes blank.
Could this be my past haunting me?
I don’t stand there long enough to be seen. I grab the rose and crush it in my fist, snapping the stem, tearing the petals apart until there’s nothing left that could pass for a message. Flowers are only symbols if you let them be. Once they’re destroyed, they’re just plant matter and sap.
I don't like being mean to plants, but that only applies when plants aren't being mean to me.
I shove the remains into the trash chute at the end of the hall and wipe my hands on my jeans, breathing through the tremor in my fingers.
This means nothing, I tell myself as I unlock the door. Coincidence. A mistake. Someone else’s delivery, not mine.
I step inside and lock the door behind me, pulse still racing. I don’t say anything. I don’t text anyone. I don’t give the moment witnesses. Whatever life I left behind stays there because I don’t invite it in.
I’ve been careful. I changed my name. I disappeared on purpose. Men like him don’t get to follow you forever.
I refuse to believe otherwise.
Still, I inch carefully into the apartment.
I don’t flip the light on right away. I stand there, listening, letting my eyes adjust, cataloguing the sounds that belong and the ones that don’t. The refrigerator hums. Pipes tick faintly in the walls. Somewhere outside, a siren wails and fades. My heartbeat is loud enough that it feels like it should echo.
I move slowly, checking corners first, then doorways, my breath shallow and measured. The bathroom is empty. The bedroom looks untouched. I pull the closet door open and hold it there, waiting, stupidly expecting something to rush out at me just because I’ve given it the opportunity. Nothing does.
By the time I reach the living room, my shoulders are tight enough to ache. I step forward?—
And something explodes into motion.
I yelp and stumble back as a shape launches itself off the couch with a furious hiss, claws skittering against fabric. My heart tries to exit my body entirely before my brain catches up.
“Jesus, Wasabi!”
My asshole cat glares at me with his one good green eye, tail puffed, looking deeply betrayed that I’ve interrupted his evening.
Long fur, gray tabby stripes, permanent expression of judgment. A rescue, technically, though anyone who’s met him would argue I’m the one who needs saving. He is a mix between a Persian and the devil himself, and he has never forgiven me for the war crime of bringing him in from a downpour some two years ago.
That said, he has never tried to leave, either.
I scoop him up before he can make another attempt on my life, pressing my face into his fur until my breathing slows. He smells like dust and cat food and home. He tolerates the hug for exactly three seconds before squirming, which is generous by his standards.
I set him down and force myself into motion. I scoop food into his bowl, top up his water, rinse the dish even though it doesn’t need it. Wasabi eats like he’s been personally wronged by the concept of hunger, crunching loudly, glaring up at me between bites as if to make sure I’m still here.
