8. Esperr
ESPERR
I’m ninety-three percent sure I have a stalker, and for the first time I’m not entirely sure what to do about it.
I mean, the logical thing would be to go to the cops, file a report, and have them do all the searching.
But I can’t exactly do that.
And it’s not like there’s a moment I can pinpoint; there wasn’t a single glance or wrong word that gave it away. Even though it’s been a week. It’s just a feeling, a pressure that settles between my shoulder blades and doesn’t move no matter what I do.
I wipe down the counter and check my reflection in the espresso machine. Tired eyes stare at me back, but that’s nothing new.
The coffee shop looks the same as it always does, mostly empty chairs besides two girls that sit in front of the window at the booth.
Everything is normal.
But normal doesn’t make my skin prickle, not like this.
The bell over the door rings, and I look up automatically, my face arranging into something neutral and not the emotionless one I have.
“Hi, what can I get you?” I say, stepping over to the register.
“Uh…large hot caramel latte with skim milk.”
I ring him up, grabbing the large cup and quickly writing his order before telling him the total. He pays just like every other customer, and the coffee is passed to him—there is no lingering or staring, no obvious interest. But I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.
And when he leaves, that feeling doesn’t go.
It settles deeper instead, like whoever is watching me is right beside me, but they’re not.
Blowing out a silent breath, I busy myself with the counter, wiping it down even though I’ve already done that.
I refill the cups and line them up until they’re all facing the same direction.
Adjust the lids and anything that keeps my hands moving while my eyes catch on every reflective surface—especially outside.
Yet nothing looks wrong, and that’s the problem.
If someone were sloppy, I’d see it. I’d catch the hesitation, the second glance, the way their attention lingers a beat too long. Most stalkers mess up within the first two weeks of watching someone. But this feels practiced, like whoever it is understands how to disappear in plain sight.
Each minute passes by at a pace that makes my skin itch, even as the rhythm of the morning settles back around me. My body goes through the motions while my mind stays a step ahead, cataloging the exits, timing, and blind spots. Being prepared to run.
By the time the clock hit noon and Taylor stepped up to take over for me, the pressure running along my spine hadn't eased, not one bit. If anything, it’s heavier now, like they’re watching me closer.
“Sorry I’m late,” Taylor says, breathing heavily as she ties her apron, sliding behind the counter.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, untying my apron and folding it before replacing it where my jacket is. “You’re not late.”
She gives me a quick look like she’s trying to decide if I’m joking. I shrug, slipping the jacket on and zipping it up.
“Has it been busy?” she asks.
“Eh, about the same.”
Taylor hums, stepping in front of the register. “Feels like one of those days where everyone wants caffeine and no one knows what they want.”
I huff a small laugh, smirking. “Yeah, something like that.” Moving to the computer on the wall, I clock out before pulling my hood up.
“See you tomorrow?” Taylor calls out.
“Tomorrow,” I say, stepping out from the counter and moving towards the front door.
The bell rings as I yank it open, cold slamming into my face and burning my lungs immediately. I yank my hood further forward, shadowing my face, and move down the street. My pace is quick but measured, converse slapping against the pavement quietly, slush sloshing around my feet.
I don’t run right away, waiting for any movement, anything that could be following me. And then I pick up speed, breath fogging white in front of me as I keep my eyes forward, using the dark windows along the street to check behind me without having to turn my head.
It does nothing; people move in and out of the reflection, but no one matches my pace. And the pressure along my spine doesn’t ease once. Cutting across the street instead of staying on the sidewalk, my heart stays steady—no panic, just a simple assessment.
Once I cross the street, I start running—my breath tearing out of my lungs in short bursts as the cold burns its way down my throat. I push harder, not stopping until my building comes into view—unremarkable, just another place people pass without looking twice.
It’s the perfect place to go unnoticed—beige siding, dim windows, and a security camera that no longer works. Ordinary and forgettable.
I slow once I reach the curb outside my building, forcing my breath to steady before I pull the door open, the thing creaking as I slip inside. Warm air hits my face, biting worse than the cold for a second—I pause for a second, a slight hesitation, before heading for the stairs.
Taking them two at a time, my shoes scuff against the tiled stairs, and my heart still beats faster than normal—second floor and then finally the third.
I don’t stop, not when I reach the door and push it open, nor while I head down the hallway, the one reeking of smoke.
Only when I’m standing outside my apartment do I reach for my keys and slide it into the locks.
Just as I push the door open, my phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. The sensation is sudden enough that my breath stutters. Pulling it out slowly, my hands shaking, even though there’s only one person who has this number—Oliver.
And there’s no way anyone else would have it.
Kicking the door shut, I flip the lock as I answer. “If this is about my extended car warranty, I’ve already told them no,” I say.
He huffs out a laugh. “Good to hear you’re still as charming as ever.”
“Debateable,” I say, smiling into the phone, as I toe my shoes off. “You call to check in on my personality, or is this a social visit?”
“Hmmm, can’t this be both?”
“Historically I don’t think so.”
Oliver chuckles as I move farther into the apartment, tossing my keys onto the counter.
“What’s up?” I ask, reaching into the cabinet for the box of cereal.
“The sky, technically.”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me, as I pour some cereal into the bowl. “Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.”
I snort softly and grab the half gallon of milk from the fridge, setting it on the counter a little harder than necessary before pouring it over the cereal. Keeping the phone between my shoulder and ear, I grab a spoon, the clink against the bowl louder than it should be.
“Soooo,” Oliver says, dragging the word out in his normal annoying way. “Are you eating like an adult yet, or are we still pretending that cereal is a meal?”
I frown. “It has milk; that’s basically healthy.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” I grunt, carrying the bowl to the small table by the window and sitting down, tucking one leg up beneath me. The chair creaks under my weight, and I make a mental note to ignore it. I take a bite, making sure the crunch is loud enough through the phone to annoy him.
“What are you doing?” He asks.
“Trying to remember why I answer the phone when you call,” I tell him.
“Because you love me.”
I laugh into my spoon, which makes him laugh, and the sound alone sends a calming wave over me. Relaxing back into the chair, I take another bite, slower and quieter this time.
I hear some shuffling on the line before he talks again. “Work still the same?”
“Coffee shop by the day, bar at night, you know, living the dream.”
“I suppose you always did like exhausting yourself.”
I shrug, nudging the bowl closer. “Keeps me out of trouble, busy, ya know.”
“That’s never been true.”
I smile despite myself, tapping the spoon against the edge of the bowl to knock off the cereal. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?”
I don’t answer—he doesn’t need to know that I might have a stalker. Not right now anyways, because if he knew, I’d have to leave, and I like this place. I don’t want to leave quite yet.
“Anyways,” he starts after I’ve been silent for too long. “From the sounds of it, you’re eating; that’s good. Please tell me it’s more than just cereal?”
I pause, biting my bottom lip. “I had a Pop-Tart for dinner.”
“That’s not food, Es.”
“It’s edible, which makes it food, Olive.”
I can feel his glare through the phone.
“I hate that name.”
“And I hate Es.”
“Touche.”
I scoop another bite, chewing slowly as I stare out the window like there’s anything interesting to see. It’s a solid minute of silence before Oliver clears his throat.
“You’re not… like noticing anything, right?” he asks, trying to sound casual. “Like nothing weird?”
I roll my spoon between my fingers, biting my cheek. “Define weird.”
“You know what I mean…”
I do know what he means. And even though I do, I still find myself lying. “No, there’s nothing.”
There’s a slight pause, not long, but enough for me to finish chewing and swallowing.
“Okay… I… I was just checking.”
I scoop up another bite, only to drop it into the bowl and push it away—suddenly not hungry anymore.
“I haven’t seen anything pop up,” he continues, voice wavering back to normal. “There’s nothing online, no chatter, or digital noise. No one is pulling up old threads or digging where they shouldn’t.”
I grunt, getting to my feet. “That’s comforting.”
“Well, it should be,” he sasses. “Means we’re still ghosts, Esperr.”
I carry the half-eaten bowl to the sink, dropping it in, and the cereal clatters against the porcelain, milk swirling down the drain.
“Right,” I mumble. “Well, if that’s all, I’ve gotta get ready for the bar.”
Oliver doesn’t say anything right away, and I know it’s probably because he’s trying to think of something that won’t upset me. And I hate that, because it’s not him I’m angry with—it was never him.
“Try not to stab anyone,” he finally says into the phone.
“Can’t make any promises.”
He laughs, soft and familiar before sobering up. “Just be careful.”
I hesitate for half a second, just long enough to consider saying more, something like my little stalker I may or may not have.
“I’m always careful,” I tell him instead.
“Yeah…and that’s what worries me.”
“I’ll be fine; I gotta go.” I hand up before he can say anything else.
And then I’m back to standing in silence in my apartment, the one where the hum of the heater rattles and the faint tick in the walls.
I don’t move right away, letting my phone rest in the palm of my hands until the screen goes dark, and then I set it facedown on the counter like it might keep the past from leaking through it.
I look around—feeling the place is too small, bare, and meant to be temporary in every way that matters. There’s nothing on the walls except a crooked calendar I never bothered to replace. Furniture that doesn’t match and could be abandoned without regret.
It’s a life built on purpose.
But there was a time when I couldn’t afford to live like this.
Back then, every room mattered, every single exit; I memorized windows, doors, and where the stairwells were.
Learned which floors creaked and which ones didn’t.
I learned how long it took to get dressed when I had seconds to leave.
I timed it—fifteen seconds to get dressed and add an extra ten for the shoes.
I needed to know how fast I could get ready and leave if I had to and how little I could carry and still survive.
My feet carry me forward to the hall, stopping just in front of the mirror where I’m met with my reflection—a woman staring back who looks calm, normal, and someone who looks like she belongs here.
But that’s the trick, isn’t it?
I didn’t always get to belong; there were months when staying meant danger but leaving was worse. It’s when I learned how to disappear without actually going anywhere, how to make myself smaller without shrinking.
For a while after I got out, I was always looking over my shoulder, waiting for the ball to drop. But then I let myself believe the quiet was permanent, that no one was counting my steps or tracking my time. That the worst was finished.
I blow out a breath and drop onto the couch, letting the silence press in, even if I’m holding my breath.