Darrick

You often order delivery; it's much easier. Fast food or ready-made food—it doesn't matter, the main thing for you is not wasting time at the stove. It's become a habit, almost a daily ritual.

It's late evening, the doorbell rings. You jump up like a happy little child—your heart skips a beat, your feet carry you to the hallway. Through the peephole, all you can see is a piece of a cooler bag and a guy in a hoodie, his face invisible. But who cares? The food has arrived.

You unlock the door. You smile, say hello, and thank him. The guy silently hands over the order. Not a word, not a glance. You take the bag, quickly say goodbye, and close the door, just like always.

Ten minutes. You've already laid out dinner, turned on a TV show in the background, but something's wrong. Anxiety rises from somewhere inside. You go back to the hallway. Peer through the peephole.

he's there.

It's literally the same guy, but now without the hood. And without the bag. His face stares straight into the peephole. He doesn't blink, like in scary movies, but he doesn't move either. He knows you're watching. And he waits. A chill runs down your spine until your heart no longer leaps with joy. Your fingers freeze on the lock, strangely, but you don't call for help, you don't move away. You just stare back, afraid to move.