Watch me watch you.

Dear Diary.

22nd April 2024.

Monday morning.

I despise Mondays. Even worse, I despise mornings.

But on that particular Monday morning, I managed to get out of bed early. Strange? Well no. I went to bed believing I could contain my pee; however, my bladder chose to betray me around 4 in the morning.

There was a time when I would get up early in the morning and go on long, peaceful bike rides, discovering never-before-explored routes. I'd go home and do some yoga before making myself a "nutritious" breakfast. But, since the incident, everything has faded into the past.

I brushed my teeth, put on my running shoes, and went for a run. With my tired senses and unprepared legs, I barely made it halfway around the corner before running out of breath and regretting not bringing my water bottle. I sat on the sidewalk for a few minutes to allow my heart rate to return to normal.

Beep.

I looked at the time. It was almost 5 a.m. Who decided to remind me at such an ungodly hour? The text came from an unknown number.

C, I need the file as soon as possible. I will fucking throw away your stash if you do not respond right away. I know you are not even in bed right now.

Full words? Wow. That's some granddad. Wait, how do I know that he's a he? And does the C mean... Well, me?

I chose to respond, which was unusual for me.

Excuse me? Who is this?

D.

I received the reply sooner than I had hoped. Now, what the heck is that supposed to mean? Does it imply what I presume it does?

D? wtf? I'm reporting your number.

I have no time for jokes, Carl. EMERGENCY.

(Carl? Oh, so the C wasn't me. That's a relief.)

I'm not CARL. This is CATHY.

No response. You shouldn't have said your name, you idiot. What if "he" kidnaps you?

I raced home from where I was sitting on the sidewalk. If something went wrong, I would be powerless to protect myself. I didn't check my phone during the entire run back home. I heard it beep twice, but my overthinking got the best of me, and I didn't dare to read the texts. I entered my apartment, locked all three bolts, and dashed to the kitchen counter. I collapsed to the floor with a bottle in my hand, my back sliding along one of the cupboards.

I checked the texts after regaining my composure.

Shit. I am Dave. And I am sorry.

The second text came in a few minutes later.

Damn it! C. How many times do I have to tell you to stop putting other girls' numbers under your name? Stop it already.

I let out a snort and replied.

It's still me, not Carl.

Fuck. I am so sorry. I have my mind kind of tied up at this moment.

Yeah, no prob.

There was no response after that. Rude!

It was most likely a mistake, as he confessed, and he didn't want to proceed any further. That seemed to be logical. So, does it mean he's a decent guy?

I decided to quit after the hundredth time I checked for new messages. I wasn't even sure whether he was a real man.

I'm a bit of an overthinker, so I placed my phone aside, settled to forget about the morning, and concentrated on the remainder of the day, which included updating the girls about the unexpected odd morning.