Now I see why he wears the damn balaclava.
By the third stop, the excitement dulls, people settle and the novelty wears off. There is a metaphor here for the two of us but I can’t find it.
He still hasn’t looked away yet by the way.
I stare at the route map above the doors and count the stops. Breathing in and out and trying to keep my face neutral, not giving him anything.
He shifts then and a hand runs over his face.
I don’t look because it's finally my stop.
The train slows.
I standthe second the announcement chimes with no hesitation or glance in his direction. I move toward the doors, heart pounding so hard I swear the people around me can hear it.
I feel his eyes on my back but I don’t turn.
The doors open and I step onto the platform. For half a second, I feel it—that pull. The urge to look back and confirm he really came after me and I wasn’t going mad.
Don’t.
The doors seal shut and the train pulls away. I stand there as it disappears into the tunnel, the noise fading and the crowd moving on around me.
Only then do I let my shoulders drop.
Only then do I breathe.
I don’t hear footsteps behind me over the noise of the station, the echo of announcements, the rush of commuters moving in every direction. So, I left it.
Outside,the street is busy and I cross without checking the light.
I unlock the door to my building and step inside. The lobby smells like cleaner and old carpet. I hit the button for the lift and a hand clamps around my wrist and pulls.
Hard.
“Don’t ever tell me you hate me.”
I stumble, breath leaving me in a sharp rush as I’m yanked sideways, straight into the open back door of an Uber parked illegally at the curb.
The door slams shut behind me. My back hits the seat and my heart is racing, loud in my ears.
I don’t even notice him following.
He must’ve kept his distance, far enough not to be obvious. Jabari gets in after me, the car dipping under his weight.
He’s already on his phone.
I hear his voice, low and controlled, asking his agent to collect his car from my office, saying they need to have a conversation about his employment, then he ends the call and pockets the phone.
The driver glances back, confused but pulls away from the curb anyway. I wonder if he knows he’s complicit in a kidnapping!
“Did you get that tantrum out of your system?”
My wrist still burns where he grabbed me.I massage it and finally look at him. “A tantrum, huh?”
“What else would you call that?”
“A realistic outburst of emotions after a boundary is crossed.”
