One Step Behind

Not a sound.

Not a shadow.

Not even a thought.

Just a shift.

The air behind you becomes occupied.

You are alone on the street.

You know you are alone.

The houses are dark.

The windows reflect nothing but night.

Still, your shoulders tighten.

Something is there.

You keep walking.

The gravel answers your steps, and then, for half a second, it seems to answer one step more.

You stop.

Silence stops with you.

The world waits.

You tell yourself it is imagination.

A survival instinct left running too long.

A primitive alarm searching for a threat that never arrived.

You begin walking again.

The feeling follows.

Not close enough to touch.

Not far enough to ignore.

Behind you.

Always behind you.

You pass beneath a streetlamp.

Its circle of light stretches your shadow ahead.

For a moment, you almost wish you would see another one.

Proof would be easier.

Proof could be faced.

Instead there is only uncertainty, and uncertainty is patient.

The road bends.

The trees lean inward.

Somewhere in the dark, a branch cracks.

You do not turn around.

Because turning around is a kind of invitation.

You know this without knowing how.

The feeling grows heavier.

It studies the rhythm of your breathing.

It measures the distance between heartbeats.

It learns.

You walk faster.

So does it.

You tell yourself that nothing is there.

The words sound reasonable.

The fear does not.

Now every step feels borrowed.

Every second belongs to something waiting just outside sight.

You reach your front door.

Your hand finds the key.

The lock clicks.

You step inside.

Close the door.

Turn on the light.

The feeling remains.

It stands somewhere beyond the wood, beyond the walls, beyond the certainty of locks.

Waiting.

Not angry.

Not hungry.

Only patient.

And tonight, as you lie awake staring at the ceiling, the worst part is not that something might be behind you.

The worst part is how certain you have become that it knows you never turned around.