Travis, at least, had gone quiet. No texts. No surprise visits. No “we need to talk.” I let myself believe the silence meant he’d finally heard me.
Later, I’d gone to bed, wide awake. The river was loud outside my window, rushing like it had somewhere urgent to be. Wind rattled the awning, metal clanging softly against metal. The trailer creaked in reply, old bones shifting in the damp. I lay on my back, arms at my sides, counting the faint shadows the trees threw across the ceiling. I tried to count myself to sleep.One. Two. Three. Four.The numbers didn’t help. I was wide awake with anxiety burning a hole in my chest.
Eventually, I gave up trying to sleep and padded barefoot to the dinette table, flipped on the single lamp. Yellow light spilled across scarred laminate, old mail, and a half-dead plant I kept forgetting to water. I plugged in the mic, adjusted the voice disguiser, and hit record. This was my sanctuary. My one place where the words could leave without being seen.
“Welcome back toSomebody Said in Sweetbriar,” I began, voice soft, almost swallowed by the river’s roar. “Tonight’s episode is brought to you by insomnia, bad timing, and the overwhelming urge to pretend you’re fine when you are very much not.”
I leaned back in the chair. The vinyl creaked under me.
“This week’s been one of those in-between stretches,” I continued. “Nothing explodes, but nothing moves forward either. You almost miss the chaos, because at least chaos means something’s happening.” A small, warped laugh slipped out through the filter.
“I thought I had a job lead. Turns out it was just a maybe. Which is fine. I’m learning that maybe it’s just life’s polite way of saying not yet. Or not ever. Hard to tell the difference when you’re staring at another rejection in twelve-point Arial.”
The river surged, louder, closer, like it was trying to answer.
“And then there are the almost conversations,” I said. “The people you keep running into. The ones you don’t talk to, because talking would mean opening doors you’re not ready to walk through.”
I paused. Fingers traced the chipped edge of the table.
“That’s the thing about small towns. You don’t really get space from your past. It just waits around the corner, pretending to be casual.”
Something moved outside. I glanced up mid-sentence. Froze. Headlights sliced through the trees across the riverbank, cutting sharp angles across the water. One car idling. Then another.
“Huh,” I murmured into the mic, voice dropping instinctively. “Okay, that’s new.”
I leaned closer to the window, heart ticking up.
“There are people down by the river,” I said, half amused, half uneasy. “Which, for the record, is not a popular midnight hangout unless you’re a raccoon or a teenager making very questionable life choices.”
Three silhouettes stood near the tree line, backlit by the headlights. One turned slightly, and the profile was sharp against the glare, but the light was behind them, washingfeatures into shadow. I couldn’t place them. Dark coats, dark night, dark water.
Something shifted in my stomach. Not quite fear—not yet—but the body’s quiet warning system flickering on, the one that operated below conscious thought. I became suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how still everything was around me. How far the nearest light was. How clearly I could see them, which meant how clearly anyone looking in my direction might be able to see me.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe quite right.
“Okay. This is real. They’re really there. I am definitely not hallucinating,” I said into the mic, voice dropping without thinking, some instinct pulling it low even though there was no way they could hear me from here. “Three of them. Late-night meeting type energy. Very—not social. Kind of tense. It’s giving horror movie. Or at least an episode of Supernatural.”
I leaned closer. My mouth had gone dry. One of them gestured toward the water, or was it meant to be toward the campground? Another shook his head. The third crossed his arms, shoulders tight. I couldn’t hear anything, just the rain and the river and the sound of my own pulse, which had gotten louder than I would have liked.
The rational part of my brain offered helpful commentary.You are alone. It is dark. You do not know who these people are. You are standing in the open.
I told the rational part of my brain to give me thirty more seconds.
“I don’t know who they are,” I whispered into the mic. “But whoever they are, they’re not here for a casual late-night walk.”
I took a slow step back. Then stopped. One of them had turned his head.
Not toward me. Probably not toward me.
I stopped breathing anyway.
Headlights flared suddenly, sweeping across the trees and straight toward my window.
I froze.
The light caught the edge of the window, turning it into a mirror. For one sick second, I saw my own wide eyes staring back.
“Well,” I forced out, my voice a pathetic squeak, “on that unsettling note, I’m going to end tonight’s episode before I convince myself I’ve stumbled into a noir mystery.”
