And then, she laughs.
A beautifully melodic sound of amusement that bubbles from her lips.
As she bares her sharp teeth, the corners of her pink lips quirk on either side of her flushed cheeks.
The usual dark forest in her eyes brightens with warmth...
Recap: Everyone went out to a bar and there was some cute flirting between Max and Lilly. When they returned to the track, all their cars were smashed and wrecked. Leah's was damaged the most and somehow, Nathan's car remained faultless. When Leah gets back home, completely devasted, she finds a photo on her doorstep: a picture of her car, wrecked, with a hammer lying on top, and a glimpse of a hand in the corner.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Leah Parker
I'm scared.
Maybe not scared... alarmed.
Not because I'm a woman living alone. Not because my car is wrecked and insurance is doing a shitty job to repair my McLaren. But because whoever left that picture on my doorstep knows where I live.
Just the unnerving and perturbing feeling that somebody has been scrutinising me, getting to know me and my routine: what time I come home, what time I leave the house, what I'm doing when I'm outside of my apartment.
It could even go as far as listening to my conversations with a barista, asking local shop owners about me, or watching me through my window wall as I roam around in my living room.
Perhaps as I lie on my bed right now, outlining the intricate details of the jewels that string off my small chandelier with my tired eyes, somebody's watching me through secret cameras.
I squeeze my eyes shut, face scrunching into a discontented expression. I'm affirming it to myself now. Chanting the words in my head.
Nobody is watching you. Nobody is watching you. Nobody is watching you. Nobody is watching you, Leah.
A reluctant sigh fights through my gritted teeth and I open my eyes, glaring at the ceiling.
I wonder what it would be like to watch myself.
I unlock the car door but glance back into the rearview to check my lipstick and hair. Watching as I fumble with my keys nearly every time I want to enter my apartment. Observing the way I'd twirl and tune to the song playing off my speakers.
In some ways, we're all stalkers. They know you but you don't know them.
I don't think you'd classify those people as stalkers, Leah.
The people who know you pay attention to all the little details but people who don't know you just sit and observe the obvious like any mundane person.
I want to say that I have a stalker but I might be stretching the situation too far. After all, this is the second piece of material that's been left on my doorstep.
What if somebody wants to get back at me for something I've done (I'm not a pessimist, anybody would assume the worst in my situation)?
In other chances, they might be someone I know: friends, somebody I dearly trust, ex's-
