Page 12 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Deep breaths. Find my center. I'm safe.

The feeling won't go away, so I stop in front of a home decor shop with big, reflective windows. I pretend to dig through my purse while my eyes scan the street's reflection in the glass. I'm going to prove myself wrong. I'm not being—

My eyes land on a strange man.

Across the street. Baseball cap. He's watching me.

I think.

Is it the same man from yesterday? The outfit looks similar, but I can't make out his face in the reflection because it's so dark it's almost a silhouette. My heart kicks against my ribs, and my legs twitch to run.

I hold my ground.

You're imagining this, like you always do. Just go home.

I turn, forcing my steps to stay casual and controlled. But I hear footsteps matching my pace. A quick glance confirms that he's crossed the street, maintaining distance but definitely heading the same way as me.

My pace quickens. His does too.

I dart across the street at the next corner, weaving between pedestrians. He mirrors my movements, a dark echo in my peripheral vision.

My breath comes faster now, memories of other men, other threats, crashing through me.

Just when I suck in air and I'm about to scream and alert others that I'm in danger, my follower disappears.

Gone.

Like he was never there at all.

My feet carry me home on autopilot, every nerve ending raw and screaming. The hallway blurs as I fumble with my keys and nearly collide with my neighbor across from me and her tower of boxes.

"Sorry," I gasp, barely registering her startled expression.

Those look like moving boxes. Are she and her husband moving?

Great. Now I have to worry about who my new neighbor will be.Please don't let it be a man.

I don't wait for her reply as I throw myself through my door, slamming it behind me.

Three deadbolts. Chain lock. Door bar.

I pull up the app connected to my video doorbell to make sure the man from outside doesn't suddenly appear in the hallway. I wait several minutes, but there's only my neighbor shuffling boxes around.

Finally, my legs give out and I collapse on the couch. Sobs rip through me like an earthquake splitting the ground open. Everything hurts—my chest, my throat, my mind. The tears come hot and fast, blurring my vision as I pull out my phone and text Marcus.

Me:I'm so sorry.Food poisoning hit me hard. Rain check?

Marcus:Want me to bring you some medicine? Ginger ale?

God, he sounds so genuine. So kind. I feel awful for cancelling last-minute like this.

Me:That's sweet. Thank you. A friend's taking care of me.Really sorry. We'll reschedule soon.

The phone slips from my fingers as another wave of sobs hits. I can't tell what's real anymore. Was that man actually following me? Or is my trauma making things up? The Director's threat echoes in my head—"I'll be watching, so be a good girl and keep your mouth shut"—but that was six years ago. Surely, he's moved on and no longer thinks about me.

I press my palms against my eyes until spots dance in the darkness. This can't go on. I'm either being stalked or losing my mind, and I need to know which.

Maybe... maybe I need someone else's eyes. Someone trained to differentiate between real threats and imagined ones. Maybe a bodyguard, some professional who can tell me if I'm going crazy or if there's actually something to fear.

---