Page 76 of Stalkers Anonymous

How many times? How close did he get?

Has he been inside?

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

My breathing is coming too fast now, shallow gasps that make my vision swim. I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles change color, trying to anchor myself to something solid.

A few hours ago, I was happy. I was smiling so much my face hurt, giddy about weekend plans with a guy I really like. I was worried about normal things—whether I was texting too much, whether he’d think I was too eager, whether Chewy truly approves of him.

Normal things.

Stupid, beautiful, normal things.

Now I’m sitting in a parking garage at two in the morning, afraid to go home because a man who didn’t get his way decided he had a right to my happiness. Like it’s his to shred until there’s nothing left but all-consuming fear.

The tears come again, hot and relentless. I let them fall, too exhausted to fight anymore.

I think about Rachel telling me to report everything. I think about Cole’s face when he saw the word carved into the side of my car. I think about all the times I minimized this, told myself I was overreacting, convinced myself it wasn’t that serious.

It’s serious.

It’s been serious this whole time.

And I was too busy trying not to be dramatic to see it.

I wipe my face with my sleeve and force myself to take a breath. Then another. And then another.

Cole is waiting. I need to move.

I put the car in reverse and back out of the parking spot, checking my mirrors obsessively. Every shadow looks like a person. Every distant sound makes me flinch. I take the long way out of the garage, avoiding the dark corners, staying beneath the lights.

As I pull onto the main road, I catch myself glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds. Looking for headlights that follow too closely. Looking for a car that makes the same turns I do.

Looking for him.

This is my life now, I realize. Checking corners. Watching shadows. Wondering if every stranger on the street is someone who wants to hurt me.

I don’t know how to be this person.

I don’t know how to live like this.

But I don’t have a choice anymore.

The drive to Murphy’s doesn’t take long, but I’m consumed by my own racing thoughts and tears I can’t seem to stop. My mind serves up a constant replay of every word Winters said, every detail he knew, every threat he made.

How did I get here?

By the time the diner’s neon sign looms at the next intersection, I’m shaking so hard I can barely keep the car straight. I pull into the parking lot and find a spot near the entrance, under the brightest light I can find.

I kill the engine.

And then I just sit there, staring at nothing, trying to remember what it felt like to be the person I was a few hours ago.

She feels like a stranger now.

Someone I used to know.

Someone who didn’t yet understand how quickly safety can become an illusion—how easily the world she thought she knew could twist into something dark and unfamiliar and terrifying.