Chapter 1
Second person pov
The coffee shop is warm, but your hands still tremble. You clutch the cup tightly, fingers wrapping around the paper sleeve, hoping the heat will seep into your skin and calm the faint shivers running up your spine. It's always like this when you're out in public, shoulders tight, every glance from a stranger feeling like a threat. You tell yourself it's just anxiety, nothing more. But lately, it's been harder to believe.
The city moves on around you, indifferent. People brush past each other, faces buried in their phones, their own worlds spinning in oblivious orbits. It should make you feel invisible, but it doesn't.
You can feel it again. That presence
It's been weeks now. The strange sensation that someone is watching you, following you. At first, you thought you were imagining it, paranoia, your overactive mind feeding you ghosts. But then there were the small things: footsteps too steady and deliberate behind you when you walked home at night. A familiar shadow lingering at the end of your block.
You glance toward the window, the streetlights outside blurred by the rain streaking down the glass. Nothing unusual. Just the usual churn of the city at dusk. But the prickling at the back of your neck doesn't ease.
Taking a shaky sip of the drink, you try to ground yourself. You've read the advice online. don't give in to the fear, don't let your mind spiral. Focus on the present. Breathe. So you stare down at your cup and trace the swirling foam with your eyes, willing your heartbeat to slow.
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The coffee wasn't quite what you'd hoped for. You'd wanted to try something new, step out of the monotony of your routine. But the bitter aftertaste left you regretting it, and now the half-full cup sits abandoned on the small, chipped table in front of you. It wasn't coffee you wanted not really. You were craving tea, the familiar comfort of warmth steeped slowly, the gentle floral notes soothing your nerves. Next time, you think. Always next time.
You glance out the window again, watching the cold rain turn the street into a rippling gray mirror. The hum of conversation in the café barely registers now as your eyes drift to the growing darkness outside. You can't shake the feeling that someone is out there, just beyond the veil of rain. The thought twists in your stomach, but you brush it away. It's silly. Paranoid.
The quiet clang of the doorbell jolts you from your thoughts, and you realize it's time to leave. Pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you make your way to the exit. Outside, the cold rain greets you like icy needles against your face. You pop open your umbrella, the familiar click echoing in the dim evening air, and start your walk home.
The streets are emptier now, the kind of peaceful quiet that should comfort you, but instead makes you feel exposed. You walk briskly, each step accompanied by the rhythmic patter of rain on your umbrella. Every few moments, your head turns sharply over your shoulder, scanning the empty street. Nothing. No one. Just your imagination, playing tricks again.
Your apartment building stands at the end of a small street lined with trees. It's a peaceful little area, tucked away from the busier parts of the city. The kind of place that's supposed to make you feel safe. Supposed to. But your steps quicken as you approach, your keys already in your hand.
You sigh with relief as the door clicks open, the familiar scent of home wrapping around you like a blanket. Your apartment is small but cozy, softly lit lamps casting a warm glow over the space. There's the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser on the corner table, your favorite throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch. It's not much, but it's yours.
Your shoulders relax as you drop your bag by the door. The tension from the walk home begins to fade, replaced by the quiet solace of your little sanctuary. You pull the curtains shut over the windows in the living room, though they don't quite meet in the middle. You always mean to fix them, but you never quite get around to it.
With the chill of the rain still clinging to your skin, you peel off your coat and sweater, tossing them onto the armchair. Your fingers work at the button of your jeans, tugging them down before kicking them off into a pile on the floor. You don't bother with modesty, after all who's watching?
If only you knew
Outside, just beyond the window where the curtain gap leaves a sliver of your world exposed, a figure watches. Hidden in the shadows of a tree just across the street. gaze is steady, calculated. The way the soft light of your apartment spills over your skin or how your movements are tinged with vulnerability.
Inside, you pull on your favorite pajamas, the soft fabric a balm against the chill. You settle onto the couch, remote in hand, scrolling through Netflix to find something mindless to watch. The glow of the television reflects faintly against the window, a barrier between you and the night beyond.
You don't know about the shadow outside, the figure who remains even as the rain grows heavier, drenching Their clothes through. You don't know about the way Their linger just a little too long, as though memorizing the fragile peace on your face.
You're safe in your little apartment, wrapped in the illusion of solitude. But the spider in the shadows has woven itself into your world, and the strings it's pulled are only beginning to tighten.