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It’s nearly 7:30 p.m. when I finally sit to open my book and eat the heated-up dinner. I try not to anticipate the late-night visitor, hoping they take the occasional night off tonight. Honing in on my book, I get lost in the pages. This is definitely not a book I would normally read, but I hate to admit I’m a little obsessed with the insta-love trope.
“Wonder what that’s like,” I murmur into the empty space. I’m at the part where they kiss for the first time, and unlike most romance books, it’s dangerous, all-consuming, hot, and possessive, something I know nothing about but suddenly feel intrigued, wishing I could experience that just once.
To be with someone who loves you so deeply, with such force and desire that they would do anything to keep you as theirs and theirs alone. To be the center of their world and touched in a way that shows you just that—bordering on obsession. I wouldn’t know, nor will I ever, because the men in these books would never go for a woman like me. Curvy plus a little extra. My brownish-blonde hair, green eyes, and certain facial features are the only things I find somewhat appealing about my entire self.
The night passes on, and I slowly drift off, my eyes heavy. But my short-lived luck passes when I hear it. The very thing that haunts me nightly and keeps me from sleeping.
Them?
Him?
Her?
Someone.
I stand slowly, taking small steps until I’m a few feet from the door.
The handle moves, gently at first, but the sound is oddly loud in my small New York apartment. I take a slow, deep breath, and yet to me it sounds heavy, as if the person on the other side of the door would be able to hear it.
Tonight marks the third week this has been happening to me. Whoever stands outside my door never fully makes it in, no attempt other than to maybe spook me. It’s not an upscale place where I live, so all it would take is a swift kick with gusto to tear that door apart and step inside. Hell, the person could make it in if they just used a card, most likely even a piece of paper folded up a few times.
“Who— Who’s there?” I finally call out. Weeks of restless sleep and nightly visits from the stranger have led me here with no choice but to let them know I’m here and doing my best to be unafraid. I fail miserably, because I’m chilled to the bone. Every noise arouses such fear in my blood that shadows haunt me.
I look over my shoulder, feeling the constant eyes boring into me. Waiting for me to be unalarmed, unprepared, and absolutely vulnerable.
After my voice rings out, it’s silent, the echoes the door makes and the jiggling ceasing. Loud footsteps move away gradually, the sound of something scraping along the walls as the person leaves making me grow cold. They know that I know, and now, my fear has only multiplied.
My shadows have only grown more haunting.
When enough time has passed and my heart rate has settled, my fight-or-flight instinct calming. Looking around—for what, I don’t know—I try to think of what I should do now. For weeks, the phone calls to the police have left me with nothing. No change or security—I’m the crazy one. In fact, the last officer said it’s most likely a cracked-out addict looking for his dealer. “That is to be expected in this type of neighborhood.”
No. I’m not crazy. I haven’t lost my mind.
So I move fast, going to my purse, but in my frantic state, I hit the small table with the front of my thigh. I curse out from both the pain and my things falling to the ground. Rubbing out the ache, I finally bend and make quick work of cleaning up what fell to the ground: mail, junk mail, more junk mail, another piece of jun—
I stop, the last envelope catching my attention. Addressed to me from a South Carolina Law Office. That’s where my parents are from. That is one of the things I do remember before they left me to start their life without me.
Trembling hands open the cream-colored envelope. What if it’s them? My parents? I stop once the lip of it opens. Do I want to read this? Is this even something I’m ready for? They never wanted me. I was a waste, unlovable, and an inconvenience in their lives. Is this just going to be another punch to my gut, a blow to my already fragile heart?
I grew tough skin, but there are still wounds unhealed beneath the surface. Can I take more? Maybe it’s still the nerves and fear molding into a mess inside me, but I give in and pull out the letter. The words are typed out with a generic font, and my eyes slide across the page, sentence by sentence.
