Chapter 2
Your pov
The world blurs at the edges as exhaustion pulls me under. I try to fight it at first, the glow of the TV casting faint shadows on the walls, but the weight of the day drags my eyelids shut. The blanket I've pulled over myself is soft and warm, cocooning me against the chill of the rain still tapping at the window. My breathing slows, matching the rhythmic hum of the rain, and soon I drift into the hazy, dreamless quiet of sleep.
It feels like I've only been out for minutes when something pulls me back. The sensation is faint at first, so gentle that it barely registers, a whisper of a touch against my cheek. My skin tingles, warm and feather light, and for a brief moment, I think I'm dreaming. But then the touch lingers. Not just a breeze or my imagination, something real.
I jerk awake, the blanket slipping from my shoulders. My heart thunders in my chest as my eyes dart around the dimly lit room. Everything is still. the lamp casts the same warm glow as before, the TV screen now asking if I'm still watching. For a second, I almost convince myself that it was nothing, that I'd imagined it. Until I see the window.
It's open.
The curtains sway gently in the cold night air, the gap between them wider now than it had been when I closed them. My throat tightens. I know for a fact that I locked that window. I always lock it.
I'm frozen, every instinct screaming at me to move, to run, but I can't. My gaze flickers to the shadows just beyond the frame, to the streetlight glinting off the rain slick pavement outside. The night feels too vast, too dark, and for the first time, my little sanctuary doesn't feel safe.
The hair on the back of my neck rises as I force myself to stand. My legs feel unsteady, my breath shallow as I take slow, deliberate steps toward the window. The chill of the rain seeps in through the opening, making me shiver, and I have to fight the urge to slam it shut and pretend none of this happened.
But my eyes dart to the lock.
It isn't broken. It isn't damaged. It's still intact-unlatched, but perfectly fine.
Someone opened this. Someone was here.
The thought sends a spike of fear down my spine. I spin around, scanning every corner of the room, every shadow that seems too dark, every crevice where someone could hide. But there's no one. Just the quiet hum of the diffuser and the distant rumble of rain.
I swallow hard, my pulse roaring in my ears. My hands shake as I shut the window, locking it firmly before stepping back. The room feels smaller now, like the walls are closing in around me. I don't know what's worse, the idea that someone was here, or the fact that they're gone now.
I touch my cheek absently, the ghost of that sensation still lingering on my skin. It couldn't have been real. It couldn't. But my body betrays me, every nerve alight with the undeniable truth: someone touched me.
I grab my phone, clutching it like a lifeline as I double check the locks on my door. My fingers hover over the keypad, debating whether to call someone, anyone. But what would I even say? That I felt something in my sleep? That the window was open? That there's no sign of anyone, no evidence?
I don't call.
Instead, I sit back on the couch, the blanket clutched around me like armor. I don't turn off the lights this time. I don't let myself fall asleep. I just sit there, staring at the window, waiting for morning to come.