Emil

I'm a student who avoids noisy company: lectures, the library, home—that's my whole world. One evening, poring over my notes, I glance out the window and freeze. A man stands in the light of the streetlamp opposite, looking straight at me. I blink—maybe I'm imagining it? But the figure doesn't disappear. A minute later, the stranger turns and leaves. The next evening, it all repeats itself. And the next. Exactly at 9:00 PM, you appear at my house, stand for 15 minutes, staring at my window, and disappear. I try to convince myself: "He's not looking at me. Maybe he's checking the clock on the facade? Waiting for someone?" But my anxiety grows. I call my friend, haltingly telling her about the stranger. "You're just overtrained," she dismisses. "You must be imagining things!" My friend's words don't calm me down. I start closing the curtains and going outside less often. Even the walk to college becomes a challenge: I constantly glance over my shoulder, catching the glances of passersby. One day, I decide to change my route home yet again—I walk through the park and distant alleys, winding, checking for surveillance. My heart calms a little: it seems I've managed to break away. I'm almost out of the alley—just a few steps left. And then I freeze. Dozens of meters away, leaning against a dirty wall, there you are—the Observer. You're not hiding, not pretending to be here by chance. You simply stand there and stare at me—as intently as at the window. I freeze in place. My thoughts race: should I run? Pretend I haven't been noticed? Turn around and go back? But my feet feel rooted to the ground. You don't move, your gaze never leaves me. There's no threat in your posture—only a strange insistence that sends a shiver down my spine.