desertion

120

LYDIA

The hum of the fluorescent lights above me fills the quiet pizzeria, blending with the faint sounds of laughter and clattering dishes coming from the kitchen. The register beeps softly as I punch in a new order, but my fingers feel mechanical, disconnected from my brain.

It's been weeks since they caught him. The man who was in the house. The one they believe was behind everything. Since then, everyone's behavior around me has shifted. The hovering stopped. The constant watchful eyes and protective touches faded. They still look after me-Miles especially-but the tension in the air isn't as thick as it was before.

For everyone else, things seem to be moving back to normal. For me, though? I don't know what normal is supposed to feel like anymore.

"Earth to Lydia," Miles says beside me, nudging my shoulder gently. I flinch, his touch startling me, and he freezes. His playful grin falters as he watches me closely, concern flickering in his eyes.

"Sorry," I mumble, shaking my head. "I was just... thinking."

"About what?" he asks, leaning on the counter. His voice is light, teasing, but I can tell he's fishing for something deeper.

"Nothing," I reply quickly, avoiding his gaze. "Just work stuff."

That's a lie. The truth is, I've been thinking about everything. About the stalker. About the women who died because of me. About how even now, with him caught, I can't shake the feeling that something's still wrong.

"You're too quiet," Miles says, leaning closer. "And I don't mean your normal quiet. I mean scary quiet."

I glance at him, forcing a small smile. "I'm fine, Miles."

"You're not," he replies immediately, crossing his arms. "And don't tell me you are. I've known you long enough to see through your 'I'm fine' act."

I don't respond, instead focusing on wiping down the counter, even though it's already spotless. Miles sighs but doesn't push further.

The truth is, I don't know how to tell him-or anyone-that I'm not fine. That I can barely sleep without waking up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding from nightmares I can't escape. That every bite of food feels like it gets stuck in my throat, so I've stopped trying to eat much at all.

That I'm destroying myself, and I don't know how to stop.

The front door jingles as a customer walks in, and I snap to attention, my eyes darting to the figure. It's just a man, maybe in his mid-thirties, wearing a baseball cap and a jacket. Harmless, I tell myself, but my muscles are tense anyway. I watch him as he walks to the counter, my heart thudding in my chest.

"Hey, welcome," Miles greets him, his voice easy and cheerful.

The man glances at the menu, his expression neutral. I force myself to relax, inhaling deeply through my nose. He's just a customer. Nothing more.

But I can't stop the paranoia that creeps in, whispering in the back of my mind. What if he's not just a customer? What if-

"Lydia," Miles says, nudging me again. I blink, realizing the man is staring at me, waiting for me to take his order.

"Sorry," I stammer, fumbling with the register. "What can I get for you?"

The man rattles off his order, and I punch it in as quickly as I can, avoiding eye contact. My hands shake slightly, and I ball them into fists when I'm done, hiding them under the counter.

Miles steps in to hand the man his receipt and finishes the transaction, shooting me a worried glance as the man walks away.

"Lydia," he says softly, once the customer is out of earshot. "Talk to me. Please."

"I'm fine," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

"You're not," he says again, and this time there's an edge of frustration in his tone. "You haven't been fine for weeks. You're not eating, you're not sleeping-hell, you barely talk to anyone anymore. You're scaring me, Lydia."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I want to tell him he's wrong, that I'm fine, that I can handle this. But I can't. Because he's right.

"I don't know how," I finally admit, my voice cracking.

Miles frowns. "How to what?"

"How to fix this," I say, gesturing vaguely. "How to fix myself. I don't even know where to start, and I feel like I'm losing my mind. Every noise, every shadow-it's like I'm waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Miles stares at me, his expression softening. He reaches out, taking my hand in his. "Lydia, you're not broken. You don't need to fix yourself."

I shake my head, pulling my hand away. "You don't get it, Miles. I can't even sleep without hearing voices or seeing their faces. Those women-" My voice catches, and I swallow hard. "Those women died because of me. And even though they caught him, I can't stop thinking... what if it's not over? What if there's more? What if someone else-"

"Lydia, stop," Miles says firmly, cutting me off. He steps closer, his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You didn't cause this. None of this is your fault. And you're not alone in this, okay? You have me, Nathaniel, everyone. We're all here for you."

His words are meant to comfort me, but they only make the guilt heavier. I nod anyway, because I don't know what else to do.

The door jingles again, and I stiffen, my eyes darting to the new customer.

I can't help it. I don't think I'll ever stop looking over my shoulder.