The keys were in the wrong spot again. Dangling from the doorknob, actually, instead of tucked safely in my purse. I didn't think much of it at first—just shrugged it off. Told myself I must’ve dropped them without realizing, that they bounced, slid, something reasonable, easily explained. But it keeps happening. Little things, seemingly insignificant, but adding up to a disquieting sum. The scarf I swore I left on the chair in the living room, folded neatly on the hook in the entryway. My bedroom window unlocked when I was certain I’d locked it before heading out for groceries. Checked it twice, even.

Maybe I’m just tired. Adjusting to Havenwood again after four years away has been harder than I expected. Everything’s familiar but… off. Like looking at a photograph that's been slightly altered. Like the town is wearing a mask and smiling too hard, the edges of the expression a little too fixed, a little too strained.

I try not to spiral. To let the anxiety take root and blossom into something monstrous. I focus on the concrete.

The bakery on Westwood still smells like cinnamon and fresh bread, a comforting constant in a world that feels increasingly uncertain. The barista, old Mr. Abernathy, still remembers my order—raspberry tart and a double espresso, black. He said I looked different today, that I had a new air about me. I laughed and said it was the haircut, a desperate attempt at normalcy, but the truth is I haven’t been sleeping. Not well, anyway. Restless dreams that slip away like smoke when I try to grasp them.

It’s the feeling. That’s what’s keeping me awake.

That someone’s watching me. Not just casually observing, but actively, intently watching. Like a predator stalking its prey.

It doesn’t make sense. I haven’t seen anyone, not really. Sometimes I catch a shape in the corner of my eye, a fleeting darkness that vanishes as soon as I turn my head. Or hear footsteps that don’t belong to anyone I can find, echoing down the empty street behind me. But when I look, the street is empty. The air stills like it’s holding its breath, waiting.

I keep telling myself it’s nothing. That I’m being dramatic, letting my imagination run wild after being away for so long. That Havenwood is just Havenwood, a sleepy little town where nothing ever happens. But my hands still shake when I open the door to my apartment at night, the key rattling nervously in the lock. I still leave a light on in every room, a pathetic attempt to ward off the shadows and the feeling that I’m not alone. Just in case.

Tonight, I’m meeting a guy I used to know. Evan. We were friends in high school, not close, not best friends, but friendly enough. He messaged me last week after hearing I was back in town, a simple "Welcome back!" that escalated into a suggestion to catch up. He’s kind. Easy to talk to. A steady presence in a world that feels increasingly unhinged. He might even be able to tell me if anything… weird, has been going on around here.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It's just coffee. Just catching up.

I stood in front of my closet for twenty minutes, a small eternity, trying to decide between jeans and a dress. It felt stupid, putting this much thought into it, agonizing over something so trivial. But the moment I stepped out into the cool night air, the crisp autumn wind biting at my cheeks, that feeling came back—pressing between my shoulder blades, a cold, heavy weight.

Someone is watching me. It's not paranoia. It’s a certainty.

I turn. Scan the shadows, the spaces between the parked cars. There’s nothing. Only the dim glow of the streetlights and the long, distorted shadows they cast.

Just the dark trees swaying gently behind the parking lot, their branches skeletal against the dark sky. Just my footsteps on the pavement, echoing in the quiet night. Just the echo of a laugh that I’m not sure came from me, a nervous, brittle sound that hangs in the air like a question.