#chuchuuuu

The morning was cool and bright, sunlight filtering through the curtains in pale gold strips. For once, there was no alarm, no rush to get dressed, no tiny hands tugging at her sleeves. Just silence, your own steady breath, and the promise of the weekend.

You laced up your running shoes, double knotting the laces until they were snug. Your playlist was already queued on your phone, earbuds tangled in your hand as you slung your water bottle across your shoulder. Saturday mornings were yours, your ritual, your reset. A jog down the trail just outside of town, the one that wound through the woods before opening up to a quiet stretch of river.

The air was crisp when you stepped outside, biting against your cheeks. You inhaled deeply, adjusting your ponytail as your sneakers tapped against the sidewalk, the rhythm falling into place the way it always did.

By the time you reached the mouth of your trail, the town’s noises had fallen away. Here, the world was softer. The path stretched ahead, dappled in shifting light, the rustle of leaves filling the spaces your music didn’t. You slipped in your earbuds, pressing play.

Your muscles loosened as you settled into pace, feet crunching against the packed dirt. The scent of pine and damp earth clung to the air, a familiar comfort. This was your place- the anywhere you could let go of everything.

For the first mile, it was easy. Breathe  in,breathe out. Each step syncing with the beat of the songs playing. Your body warmed, the tension of the week bleeding out into motion. It wasn’t until you rounded a bend that something pricked at your awareness.

You slowed-one earbud slipping free.

The trail behind you was empty.

Still, the sensation crawled up your spine- the distinct, unshakable feeling of being watched. Music still faintly buzzed in your other ear, but the forests quiet pressed in stronger now- the distant call of a bird, the whisper of branches overhead, the rhythmic thud of your own heart. But nothing else.

You shook your head, exhaling a laugh that sounded thinner than you meant it to. You spooked yourself again. Too many late nights developing photos. Too many half-formed shapes in the corners of rooms that you’d convinced yourself were more than just shadows.

Still, you couldn’t resist glancing back once more. The path behind you lay in clean, unbroken lines of dirt and leaves. Empty.

You picked up your pace. The next stretch carried you deeper, where the trees leaned close enough that the sunlight broke into fractured pieces on the ground. The air was cooler here, damp. You focused on your breathing, on the burn in your calves, on the steady crunch of your shoes stepping on dead leaves.

Then you realised it.

The crunch wasn’t steady.

For a few strides, the rhythm faltered. The sound came a fraction too late, like an echo that didn’t belong to you.

Your pulse spiked. You ripped the second earbud out.

Silence…

You slowed to a jog, then a walk. Turning in a slow circle. The trees loomed, quiet and unbothered. A squirrel darted across the path ahead, disappearing into the brush with a twitch of its tail.

You force another laugh, softer this time, almost convincing. Echoes, that was all. The trail had a way of playing tricks with sound. But as you started running again, faster now, you couldn’t shake it, the faint certainty crawling at the back of your mind.

Someone was behind you.

Someone was matching you, step by step.

You pushed yourself harder, your lungs burning, until the trees thinned and the path broke open. The river sprawled before you, its surface glittering with fractured light. The current whispered against the rocks, steady and low, and for the first time since you’d started, your shoulders eased.

You bent forward, bracing your hands on your knees as you caught your breath. The chill in the air carried water-scent and moss, grounding you. This was why you came here every week- because the world felt smaller at the river, quieter, stripped down to nothing but breath and water and earth.

Pulling your bottle from its sling, you twisted the cap and drank deeply, letting the coolness steady your racing pulse. By the time you turned back, the trail seemed different. Still familiar, but sharper somehow. The silence felt watchful.

You shook it off and ran anyway. Faster this time, driven by the itch to be out of the trees. By the time the mouth of the trail appeared, framed by the edge of the parking lot, you were flushed and slick with sweat, your heart still a nervous stutter.

Your car waited in its usual spot. The dirt lot is otherwise empty. Relief prickled through you.

You slowed as you approached, tugging your keys free from your waistband pocket. The sight of your car- the familiar dent above the headlight, the faded bumper stickers peeling at the edge- should have been grounding. Safe.

Except you stopped short. The dirt around the tires was disturbed, fresh footprints overlapping in a messy scatter. Too large to be yours. Too many to belong to just you. They circled the vehicle once, then again, like someone had paced there for a long time.

Then you saw it, with the help of the reflection from the sun. On the driver's side window, faint but undeniable. A smudge. The shape of a hand dragged slowly against the glass. You swallowed hard. You hadn’t touched that window. Every nerve screamed.

The lot was empty. The woods were silent. But the print gleamed faintly in the light, proof you hadn’t imagined anything at all.

Your thumb hovered over the unlock button on your key fob, your pulse hammering in your ears. You couldn’t just climb in, not after what you’d seen.

You swallowed hard, forced your hand steady, and pressed the button. The car chirped. You pulled the handle, yanking the door open with sharp breath, eyes darting to every shadow inside. The front seats were empty. The dashboard is neat and untouched.

Still, your skin prickled.

You leaned across the console, popping the back door. The hinges opened, the sound too loud in the empty lot.

The backseat was bare- except for the hollow where your jacket should’ve been. You kept it folded there for weeks, a soft gray sweatshirt you wore after cold morning runs. You know you left it there.

Now it was gone.

Your chest tightened, and the world tilted. You stagger back, out of the car and your keys slip from your hand, clattering against the dirt.

Air caught in your throat, too shallow, too sharp. You pressed a fist against your sternum, as if you could force your lungs to work, but the more you fought for breath,the further it slipped away.

You sank down, knees hitting the packed earth. The grit dug into your palms as you pressed your hands to the ground. Head bowed, your vision blurred at the edges.

In. Out.

In. Out.

You counted, desperate. Four counts in, six counts out. Again, again.

Your body shook with effort, your chest ached. But slowly- agonizingly- the air began to move again. By the time you could breathe without choking on air, your legs were numb from kneeling in the dirt.

You pushed yourself upright, swiping at the sweat slicking your temples. The parking lot was still empty. Quiet. Silent…

But the sweatshirt was gone.

You forced yourself into the car, slamming the doors locked as soon as you were inside. The steering wheel was slick against your hands. You drove fast, every glance at the rearview mirror making your heart stutter, until your building came into view.

Home.

You needed home.

You stumbled into your apartment minutes later, stripping your shoes at the door, shedding your damp clothes as you rushed to the bathroom. The shower roared to life, steam curling up around you. You stepped beneath the spray, bracing your hands against the tile, letting the hot water sear the panic off your skin.

But no matter how hard you tried, no matter how hard you scrubbed, no matter how long you stood beneath the water… You couldn’t wash away the feeling that someone else’s hands had already touched what was yours.

The water pounded against your shoulders, hot and insistent, washing away sweat and dirt, leaving a faint trail of relief in its wake, the water browning slightly as it ran down the drain. You tilted your head back, letting the spray splash across your face, letting the warmth seep into your tense muscles. For a moment, you could almost convince yourself that the world had shrunk back to this small, safe circle of steam and porcelain, that the trail, the footprints, the missing jacket- it had all been a cruel trick of the imagination, a loss of memory.

When you finally stepped out, wrapping yourself in a towel, your heart was still jittery. You checked the locks on every door, clicking each deadbolt with meticulous care. Windows? Every one seemed secure as you broke your usual routine with paranoia. And everything seemed mostly normal inside, except one window. The kitchen window, slightly ajar. You frowned, stepping closer, the faint draft brushing against your face. You hadn’t left it open. You never opened the windows.

Panic bubbled again, sharp and insistent. You grabbed the small kitchen knife from a drawer, pressing it against your palm as you moved cautiously from room to room. Each step was slow, deliberate, your eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.

The apartment was empty.

Your furniture, your photos, your plants- everything untouched, nothing moved. Nothing breathed except you.

Still, when you finally sat on the edge of the couch, knees pulled to your chest, you didn’t immediately relax. Your hand lingered on the knife, your ears straining for any sound that might not belong. Only the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the building settling, the faint rustle of a leaf brushing against the window outside. Even the neighbour's dog was quiet.

You exhaled, long and shaky, letting yourself finally sink into the couch cushions. The apartment felt quieter than it had in weeks, safer… almost. But the faint impression of someone else’s presence lingered, ghostlike, in the corners of your mind.

After a deep breath, the apartment was finally quiet. You had checked the locks twice, traced the edges of the windows, even set the knife on the counter just in case. Your breathing had slowed to a shaky rhythm, and the warmth of the shower still clung to your skin like a protective cloak. Then a knock shattered the silence.

Your chest jumped into your throat. One, then two slow knocks, deliberate and seemingly measured.

You froze, and your eyes darted to the door. You stand up, legs shaking and sore from your run as you stand in front of it. You look through the peephole. No one was visible. Your pulse thundered.

“Hello?” Your voice was small, tentative, uncertain.

There was no answer. Just another knock, but it sounded heavier.

Part of you wanted to ignore it, but another part of you was terrified to. Your stomach lurched as you peered through the peephole again. A man stood there. Talland composed, dark coat over neutral clothes. In his hand, something unmistakeable. Your wallet. “Fuck…” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed. Your pulse rattled in your chest.

With another deep breath, you took the chain off your door, and cracked it open, barely enough to even stick a finger through.

“You dropped this.” He says casually, lifting your wallet slightly, offering it calmly.

His voice was low, even, and he was familiar in the way the photos had been. No aggression, no malice, just that impossible calm.

Your eyes raked over his body, trying to get at least a basic outline of what this guy looked like.

You went from bottom to top. He was wearing black boots, and the line was barely visible of where his boots ended, and his black jeans started. Your eyes quickly went further up, not wanting to stare, and he’s wearing a familiar gray sweater. The one that was missing from your car. A little further up, your eyes meet his. His eyes are blue. Sharp. And there's stubble around his face that matched the colour of his shoulder length hair that was pushed behind his ears other than a little strand falling on his face.

Your knees felt weak, you had no idea what to say.

Does he know I know about him? You wonder, and finally use your voice. “Th-thank you…” You stammered, stepping closer, and opening the door more.

He nodded once, small, and precise, then turned after handing over the wallet. He walked away down the hall without looking back, leaving you staring at the door, your hand trembling around the knob.

You closed the door and locked it, again and again, the apartment felt smaller, tighter. You sank against it, pressing the wallet to your chest, grounding yourself.

Your apartment was your sanctuary, and yet, you had never felt so unsafe. The walls have never felt so unfamiliar.

Your hands trembled, but the panic was slowly fading,replaced with sharp, focused awareness. Moving with care, you retrieved a roll of tape from a kitchen drawer, an idea coming to mind. Methodically, you sealed the edges of every door and windows of your apartment, running the tape along frames, pressing it down firmly. It was a small measure, maybe even a little paranoid- but if someone tried to force their way in, you would know. And for the first time that night, that little measure of control steadied you.

Finally, you placed your wallet on the nightstand, taking a moment to smooth your hair and settle into your pyjamas. You checked the locks once more, letting yourself inhale slowly. The apartment was quiet, no one was there except you.

Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, you would put your fear aside-maybe. You had a Halloween fair to attend with your friends, costumes planned, music and laughter waiting. You wanted to sleep in, recharge, pretend for a while that the shadows of the last twenty-four hours didn’t exist.

Climbing into bed, you pulled the blanket up to your chin, letting the warmth seep in, letting your mind imagine the fair, the sweets, the laughter. You turned off your lamp, leaving only a faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds.

Eyes closed, you told yourself you could rest. That tomorrow you will be safe.