Daniel Seavey
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Her heart was hammering in her ears.
She attempted to breath deeply; it turned out shallow, shaky.
Stop. He's not following you.
It was repeated parallel to a mantra in her head. But she still quickened her pace. She still gripped her phone— useless— tighter in her hand.
She imagined her friends sitting in their favorite restaurant under warm lamplight, wondering where she was. She imagined them glancing at the glass entrance doors, awaiting her arrival. She needed to call them, but when she'd left her apartment in a rush of poor time management, she failed to notice her phone was dead. Completely drained of battery. Useless.
Stop being paranoid. He's not following you.
There were cracks in the pavement, summer air sweltering and suffocating, even in the late evening. Acting on a split-second motive, she took a left, entirely out of the way of her destination, but in ultimate favor of easing her conscience.
Cracked pavement. Irregular heartbeat. Sticky air.
It was the puzzle piece that clicked into place— recognizing shuffling steps behind her continuing to echo off empty buildings lining the street. She twisted her neck to peer over her shoulder.
Panic choked her, stole the breath from her lungs.
He was already staring.
Whipping around, she broke out in a jog. Revised destination: the approaching break in the sidewalk.
Her body was trembling, vision hazy as her eyes absorbed her surroundings for something, anything—
A building across the street. Large glass-paned front windows. Light pouring out, bathing cement in a welcoming glow.
Hair stuck to the back of her neck, goosebumps breaking out along her arms. Without thinking, without looking back, without faltering, she found herself yanking the door of the shop open.
There was stale air conditioning. Brewed coffee. Quiet atmosphere. One young man sitting alone several tables over.
Her breathing was sporadic, uneven, and her feet were already carrying her away from the door when he raised his head and locked eyes with her.
Then his gaze was trailing behind the dip of her shoulder. He stared, his eyes changing, his expression morphing, twisting into what it was not before. She didn't wait around to watch the rest unfold.
She turned on her heel. And froze.
The man stood outside the window, ominous, staring unrelentlessly. It was cold, wrong.
Her brain ceased functioning, raw fear pulsing through her veins. And she didn't move.
There was a gentle, compelling force pulling at her forearm then, her subconscious connecting it to the young man.
"Hey, come 'ere," he muttered, low, dark. Her body stumbled into a different position as he stood beside her, then in front of her.
