Page 10 of Letters From A Stalker

"It's already in your inbox."

I look up.

She’s smiling, pleased with herself.

"You were going to ask."

"I was."

"I know."

I shake my head. "I really need to stop underestimating you."

"Good luck with that."

A knock sounds at the door before I have a chance to answer.

Mrs. Pritchard stands in the hallway wearing the same lavender cardigan she has worn to almost every session for the last four months, her purse tucked beneath one arm and a paperback novel clutched against her chest.

Mara steps toward the door of my office and closes them, leaving a confused Mrs. Pritchard in the waiting room.

"I'll see you after five."

"If I survive."

"You'll survive."

"I was talking about you."

She laughs as she exits and closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with the file still open on my screen.

I don't think I can keep pretending I'm fine.

The sentence lingers in my mind long after Mrs. Pritchard enters and settles onto the couch across the room.

At the time, I mistook it for professional curiosity. Two days later, Julia Hayes would walk into my office and prove exactly how wrong I am.

3

Julia

My alarm goes off at 5:47 a.m. with the kind of shrill persistence that feels personal.

I let it scream while I stare at the ceiling, weighing the consequences of simply refusing to participate in the day. There is something deeply offensive about being expected to function before sunrise. Especially when I fell asleep sometime after two, despite spending most of the night lying perfectly still with my eyes closed, pretending it would help.

My body feels heavy in that familiar way that makes me anxious. My muscles are still carrying the memory of how they locked up on that bus two days ago. The faint throbbing in my right hand makes me glance toward the swollen crescent shape where my teeth broke skin. The mark really looks uglier in daylight. Not serious enough to require medical attention, but obvious enough to raise questions that would leave me scrambling for answers.

I reach toward the nightstand to silence the alarm, then remain where I am with the comforter pulled up to my chin, the lamp beside the bed still glowing from the night before. I stopped caring about that a long time ago because I never fall asleep like a normal person. I often describe it to Tess as passing out because that’s exactly what it feels like. One minute I’m awake, the next I’m gone. Besides, the house felt too quiet when I came upstairs and turning off the last light had seemed like another form of surrender I wasn’t ready to make.

Then it hits me — therapy is at four. I have more than ten hours before I have to sit in a room with a stranger and explain why my own body suddenly decided a song was reason enough to stop breathing. Ten hours should feel like plenty of time. Instead, it feels like a countdown.

I roll onto my side and look at the chair beside the window, where the clothes I wore yesterday are still tossed over the back in a distorted mess. My sweater hangs halfway to the floor, one sleeve twisted inside out, and my jeans are folded badly enough that calling them folded feels like a joke. Normally, I would have put everything away before bed. I can’t sleep when the room is messy. Clutter makes my thoughts messy, as if every abandoned cup and crooked pillow becomes evidence that something else in my life is slipping out of place. Last night, I left it and now it bothers me more than it should.

I push the duvet aside and sit up, wincing when cold air brushes against my bare legs. My feet find the slippers waiting beside the bed, positioned neatly enough that I can step into them without looking. The habit is so automatic I do not remember creating it, much like most of the small rules I follow without questioning. Keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Phone on the left side of the nightstand. Curtains closed before dusk. Coffee mug washed before bed. Clothes laid out the night before work. Nothing dramatic, nothing anybody else would notice. Just tiny ways of making life predictable enough that I don’t have to admit how much unpredictability scares the shit out of me.

The bathroom mirror also feels more unkind this morning than any other. My chestnut hair stands in several directions, although somehow the chaos looks better than it usually does after forty minutes of effort. There are dark half-moons beneath my eyes, my skin looks dull, and the thin scar near my right eye is more visible without the concealer softening it. I lean closer, inspecting my face as if I might find something new there. But everything looks exactly the same. The same two beauty marks near my brows. The same green eyes that look brighter when I am upset, a cruel little aesthetic bonus nobody asked for. The same woman who lost her mind in a bus full of strangers.

I turn on the faucet and splash cold water over my face, hoping the shock will interrupt the memory before it fully forms but my brain is faster. I see Tessa shifting in front of me, using her own body to shield mine from curious eyes. I hear her telling someone to stop staring. I feel my teeth sinking into my hand because pain with a location was easier to manage than the thing tearing through my chest. A wave of embarrassment rolls through me so hard I pause with my toothbrush halfway to my mouth.