The Shape of Being Followed

I keep replaying the reflection in the station glass. Two buses, one quiet lawyer, and still those clean gray shoes appeared twice, as if the watcher had become part of the route instead of a person I could identify and rank. I hated that I had to turn fear into craft. Change the platform, offer them a false direction, then pretend my pulse is merely steady because I am good at my job.

Soo-ah tried to apologize for bringing danger near me. I wanted to shake her gently and make her understand that keeping the secret was not weakness. She had already paid enough in courage. Still, after she left, I caught myself resenting her for making me care whether she reached home safely. Caring is expensive when nobody asked me to price it.

The bruised fingerprint from yesterday throbbed under my thumb while I cooked. I am furious that yesterday followed me into today. I am more frightened that I will let it keep following me because stopping would mean looking directly at it.

Tomorrow’s pickup is already beside my keys. I know I will check the hallway mirrors again. I know I will stand under the fairy lights and perform calm for myself. Tonight, though, the careful face slipped. The plain truth is this: I am lonely in a life I chose, and sometimes I miss the easier shape my family expected me to keep.