Maybe I imagined that too.
A bitter laugh slips out. “Great. Losing your mind in record time.”
Maybe isolation does that.
I stand, brushing my hands off on my jeans, and force myself to walk the perimeter of the cabin. Slow. Methodical.
No tracks. No movement. No sign of anyone. And yet—I can feel it.
That prickling awareness at the back of my neck.
Watching.
I spin suddenly, scanning the tree line.
“Hello?” My voice cuts through the quiet, sharper than I intend.
Nothing answers. No movement. No sound.
Just the echo of my own voice fading into the trees.
I press my lips together and shake my head. “You’re done.”
I turn back toward the cabin, climbing the steps and stepping inside, locking the door behind me again.
Enough.
I grab my camera, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the bedroom. If I’m going to stay out here, I need to work. Focus.
That’s how I get through this. How I get through everything.
My mind falls back to Sacramento–how I spent the last two years being followed by my ex-boyfriend. He was never overtly threatening, just always there. In truth, he’s the reason I left–I couldn’t shake the feeling of being constantly watched. I thought the wide open spaces would help me shake off the anxiety, but it’s only followed me here.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hoping to distract myself by flipping through the shots from yesterday.
Light. Texture. Depth. Normal.
My breathing evens out, attention narrowing to the screen. The world shrinks to composition and color and the clean, controlled space behind the lens.
I scroll through the last image—and freeze.
It’sme.
Standing in the clearing. Taken from behind.
My stomach drops.
My fingers tighten around the camera as I zoom in.
The shot is crisp. Deliberate. Focused on me like I’m the subject.
Like I’m the target.
“Okay…” My voice comes out thin. “Okay.”
I scroll back.
The previous images are mine. I recognize them. The angles. The framing.
