Don’t Turn Around

I keep hearing footsteps

that arrive a second after mine,

like the world is slightly delayed

and something is catching up.

It starts in ordinary places—

hallways that smell like wet paint,

bus stops where the wind

pretends to be breathing.

I tell myself it is nothing.

But nothing has weight like this.

When I pause, it pauses too.

When I swallow, the silence behind me

swallows harder.

I try walking faster.

The sound learns speed.

I try stopping.

The air tightens like a held secret

refusing to be spoken aloud.

People pass me on the street

but none of them look at my back.

That is the part I cannot understand—

how they are so calm

with something standing so close

it almost shares my shadow.

At night, I sleep facing the wall.

Still, I dream of a room

where something is standing behind the bed

without ever stepping forward.

It does not touch me.

It does not need to.

The certainty is enough.

Yesterday I found footprints

on the other side of my own tracks.

Smaller at first. Then matching mine.

Then slightly deeper.

As if whatever follows me

is learning my exact weight.

Even mirrors are unreliable now.

They hesitate before reflecting me,

like they are checking

if I am still allowed to appear.

I stopped using them.

But I still feel the gaze

in reflective surfaces I cannot avoid—

shop windows, puddles, the black screen

of my phone before it wakes.

There is always a fraction of a second

where something else almost shows up.

I have started speaking less.

Not because I am afraid of being heard,

but because I am afraid

it might answer from behind me.

Tonight the footsteps are closer

than they have ever been.

Not louder.

Closer.

I can tell by the way the air bends—

like a presence leaning in

to match my breathing exactly.

If I turn around, I will know.

That is the lie I keep telling myself.

Knowing is not the problem.

Continuing is.

So I walk forward

through rooms that do not feel empty

even when they are.

And I promise myself again

I will not look back.

Not even when the silence behind me

finally learns to speak my name.