I took a couple of days off.
Not because anyone told me to. Because my body asked before my mouth ever could.
After the almost-robbery. After the sharp pain that bloomed across my palm and the way fear sank into my bones like it had found a permanent home. I told myself I was shaken. That I needed rest.
What I really needed was quiet.
Time to let my nerves settle. Time to convince my heart that I wasn’t still in danger. Time to heal, inside and out.
I barely left my apartment.
Days blurred together in a haze of UberEats bags and trashy television, the kind that didn’t demand anything from me. No thinking. No reacting. Just noise to drown out my thoughts. I spent most of it curled up on the couch, one hand absently rubbing the centre of my chest, right over my sternum.
It’s a habit I’ve had since I was a kid. A grounding thing. A reminder that I’m still here. Still breathing.
This morning, I finally force myself out.
The hallway feels too open as I lock my door behind me, the click echoing louder than it should. Instinctively, my hand drifts back to my chest, fingers pressing lightly as I draw in a slow breath and turn toward the stairs.
That’s when I notice them.
The cameras.
Small. Black. Almost elegant in how discreet they are. Mounted high in the corners, angled with unsettling precision, watching stairwells, exits, blind spots. Not random. Not rushed.
Intentional.
My steps slow.
That’s strange,I think, my pulse beginning to skitter. I’m certain they weren’t here a few days ago. I would have noticed. I always notice things like this.
I make my way down to the car park, my shoulders tight, fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket as if bracing myself. The air feels heavier down here, cooler, quieter.
When I spot my car, I stop short.
For a moment, I forget how to move.
It hits me all at once, I wasn’t the one who brought it back here. I remember that now. Remember being taken home. Remember not driving.
And yet, here it is.
Parked perfectly in my favourite spot. The one I always choose without thinking. Tucked away just enough to feel safe.
It’s spotless.
Not just clean,immaculate.
The windows gleam. The paint shines. There’s no dust, no fingerprints, no sign that this car had ever been the site of something violent. And then the realisation lands, sharp and dizzying.
“My keys.” I gasp as I grab them out of my bag.
They were not missing.
They were upstairs, in my apartment this morning.
My chest tightens, fingers pressing harder over my sternum as I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat. I rest my hands on the steering wheel, forcing myself to breathe as I take in the pristine interior. The fresh scent. The careful attention.
And just like that, the memory surfaces.
