Behind Me

I hear it most

when the house grows quiet.

Not footsteps.

Not breathing.

Just the feeling

that something stands behind me.

Waiting.

The hallway remains empty.

The mirrors show nothing.

The doors stay closed.

Still,

I turn around.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each time

finding only shadows

and the soft hum

of a life continuing as normal.

But fear is a strange thing.

It does not need proof.

It sits beside you at dinner.

It rides home in the passenger seat.

It waits outside the bathroom door

while you pretend

you are not afraid.

Some nights

I feel it standing at the foot of my bed.

Not touching.

Not speaking.

Only watching.

Patient.

As if it knows

I will eventually look.

As if it has all the time

in the world.

Perhaps that is what frightens me most.

Not that something is there.

But that it has always been there.

Quietly following.

Growing closer with every year.

And one day,

when I finally gather the courage

to turn around,

I fear I will discover

maybe I have been carrying it

like a second shadow.

Maybe every glance over my shoulder

was only a rehearsal.

The house knows this.

The walls keep still.

Even the dark seems patient,

as if waiting for me

to recognize my own shape.

And realize

it has been me

all along.