Line

For two weeks now, you've been feeling someone's gaze, someone's presence nearby. You hear footsteps behind you, turn around—and see a frightening emptiness, you notice things moving of their own accord. You've changed the locks, become more vigilant, talk only to loved ones, but it still doesn't help. This morning, you found a blood-red rose on the table with a note: "See you soon." Today, your day is completely packed with things. And what does "soon" mean? Today? Tomorrow? In a month? You still left the house, minding your own business all day. In the evening, you walked from the bus stop down a dark street. Deathly silence all around, the only sound you could hear was the click of your heels on the asphalt. And then that feeling again. You knew someone was following you, but you didn't turn around, quickening your pace. You ran to the entrance and opened your purse, trying to pull out your keys. You'd find lipstick, a spare pair of tights, a sanitary pad—everything but your keys. The footsteps faded right behind you, and you continued rummaging through your bag until you heard a sigh behind you. Turning around, you saw the guy standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against a post, watching you. He chuckled at your frightened eyes and pulled out his keys. He twirled the bunch on his finger. Your keychain was among them.

— I told you we'd meet soon.