Don't Turn Around

There is something behind me. I feel it in the way the air shifts— a breath that isn't mine, a shadow that moves when I stop moving. I don't look. I've learned not to look. The floorboards speak a language I never taught them, creaking confessions of weight that shouldn't be there. Still — I don't turn around. It follows the rhythm of my heartbeat, patient as winter, quiet as a secret. So I walk forward. Eyes ahead. Steps steady. Because the worst thing about whatever stands behind me — is what I might see if I finally turn around.