Safe

The station always looked abandoned at that hour,

as if the city had quietly stepped away

and left only the hum of wires behind.

Late fall.

The kind of cold that slips through sleeves

and settles in your bones before you notice.

I had stayed too long at a friend’s house again,

laughing past midnight,

pretending the world outside the window

was softer than it really was.

But walking toward the SkyTrain alone,

I remembered every story ever told to women—

every warning folded into our pockets

like spare change.

The platform was empty.

Across the street,

a parking lot slept beneath a dying lamp,

its light trembling weakly against the dark.

That was when I saw the van.

Old. Silent. Waiting.

A man stepped out slowly,

not hurried, not lost,

just drifting in my direction

as though he already knew

where I was going.

My heartbeat became louder than the tracks.

I stared hard at the glowing rails,

willing the train to appear.

And when it finally did,

I climbed aboard too quickly,

breathing relief for exactly three seconds.

Then came that feeling.

Not sight.

Not sound.

Something older than both.

The prickling at the back of my neck,

the sudden itch beneath my hair,

the certainty of eyes

resting where they should not.

I never turned around fully.

Fear does strange things—

it convinces you that looking

might make the nightmare real.

So I walked fast through the empty car,

each reflection in the darkened windows

stretching into someone else.

Someone behind me.

Still behind me.

The driver listened before I even finished speaking.

Kindness can sound almost unreal at night.

He let me stay beside him the whole ride,

his calm voice steady as the tracks beneath us.

And when my stop arrived,

he called a taxi

so I would not walk home alone.

Even now,

years later,

I remember that feeling more than the man himself.

Not his face.

Not the van.

Not whether he truly followed me at all.

What stayed was the cold—

those invisible footsteps

walking just one breath behind mine,

the darkness pressing close enough

to touch my spine.

Some fears do not chase you loudly.

They simply keep pace.