19. Julia
Julia
The lamp stays on.
I‘m staring through the living-room window toward the trees while the meaning of that decision settles somewhere between my ribs and refuses to become anything simple.
He told me exactly what leaving it on would mean.
There was no vague implication I could hide behind later, no room to pretend I misunderstood what he was asking.
If that light is burning, I’ll take it as your yes.
And apparently my answer is yes. The realization sends another wave of heat through me, followed almost immediately by the much more reasonable reminder that there is a strange man somewhere outside my house who has been watching me without permission for weeks.
Both reactions exist at the same time, which feels profoundly unfair.There is nothing remotely normal about any of this.
A man whose name I don’t know has stood somewhere beyond those windows and watched me move through my own home, seen me when I believed I was completely alone and then written about one of the most private things I could possibly do with enough detail that there was no mistaking what he had witnessed.
That should disgust me enough to turn the lamp off.
Instead, I’m standing here wondering whether he can see me now.
I move closer to the glass and try to look beyond my own reflection.
The lights inside make it difficult, throwing the room back at me while everything beyond the reach of the porch light disappears into shadow.
I can make out the lawn, several tree trunks and the faint outline of my neighbor’s fence farther down, but nothing that resembles a man.
He could be almost anywhere out there. A nervous flutter rushes through my stomach that has absolutely no business feeling as much like anticipation as it does.
“This is so fucked up.”
My voice sounds strangely intimate against the quiet room, as though I’m admitting it to him instead of myself.
Maybe I am. The letter lies open on the couch behind me.
I don’t need to read it again. At this point, several lines have carved themselves directly into my memory, especially the ones I would prefer my brain stop replaying with quite so much enthusiasm.
He wants me to touch myself knowing he’s watching, wants me to take my time.
He wants to see whether awareness of him changes anything and because apparently whatever common sense I once possessed has left without giving notice, there is a part of me that wants to know too.
I step away from the window. Not because I’m turning him down, but because I suddenly resent the idea that he might think asking is enough to get exactly what he wants.
If I’m going to do this, then it is going to happen because I chose it, not because a black envelope arrived and some unseen man decided what my evening should look like.
So I go to the kitchen. If he really is standing out there waiting, he can fucking wait.
The thought makes the corner of my mouth lift before I can stop it.
I pour myself water, put away groceries that have already been put away once and spend an unnecessary amount of time rearranging things inside the refrigerator as though yogurt placement has suddenly become a matter requiring serious consideration.
I check my phone, do some light doom scrolling on Instagram and wipe down a section of the counter that was already clean.
All the while, I remain acutely aware of the lamp burning in the living room.
It feels almost like another person occupying the house with me, a quiet presence sitting just beyond the edge of every ordinary thing I do.
Eventually I return to the couch. The letter is exactly where I left it so, I pick it up and let my eyes find the lines that have been bothering me most.
Not rushed. Not because I told you to. On your own time.
Then:
Make me suffer through every second of it if that’s what you want.
I stare at that sentence for a moment before looking toward the window again.
“Oh, you can suffer.” For once, the words come with a little more confidence than embarrassment.
I sit down, pull the blanket over my legs and turn on the television.
If he wants a performance, he is getting a cooking competition.
For the next hour, I watch strangers panic over pastry while pretending I’m not occasionally imagining the man outside wondering whether I’m doing this deliberately.
Maybe I am. There is something unexpectedly satisfying about knowing I can leave him there without giving him anything else.
He asked me to leave the lamp on if I wanted him to stay, and I did.
That is all I agreed to. Nothing more belongs to him unless I decide it does.
By the time the episode ends, I have made my decision.
I stand, switch off the television and look toward the window one last time.
The lamp remains beside the couch, casting the same warm pool of light across the room.
I leave it burning as I head upstairs. If he wants to interpret that as an answer, he can.
Friday morning feels insultingly normal, considering I spent part of the previous evening knowingly allowing a stalker to remain outside my house. And not only that, I was considering giving him what he asked for. How fucked up is that?
I feel there should be some visible consequence.
A warning siren. A dramatic shift in the weather.
Maybe a letter from the universe informing me that my judgment privileges have officially been revoked.
All of these things might happen if I had decided to share this particular and obvious little mental episode of mine.
But I haven’t so… no point in expecting that.
Instead, I shower, get dressed for work and waste five minutes trying to decide which shoes look better with my skirt.
There is no envelope outside when I leave, not that I’m expecting one or at least I won’t admit to it out loud.
Work is already moving at full speed when I arrive.
Daniel has beaten me in again, although he is currently trapped near reception on the phone, waving a folder at one of the junior associates with the particular level of aggression that means somebody has created a problem he is now expected to solve.
I catch his eye as I pass, he points toward the kitchen instead of producing coffee.
I put one hand over my heart in theatrical disappointment.
His mouth forms something I’m relatively certain would violate at least two HR policies.
Normal. I appreciate normal more than usual today.
For most of the morning, the office manages to occupy enough of my attention that my Ghost remains exactly where he belongs, which is nowhere near contracts, deadlines and people asking me questions that actually have identifiable answers.
And yes, on my way to work, somewhere in between two red lights that gave me way too much free thinking time, I decided to change his sign off name to Ghost. Seems only appropriate since I can’t see him and he’s haunting my every remaining functioning brain cell.
Shortly before lunch, I hear someone apologizing.
It isn’t unusual in an office. People apologize for interrupting, for sending the wrong attachment, for missing something buried beneath an email chain long enough to qualify as archaeological material.
This apology is different, though. It’s too quiet, too repetitive and it makes me look up from my own task at hand.
One of the newer paralegals is standing beside a senior associate’s desk with a file pressed against her chest. She’s young, somewhere in her mid-twenties, but usually confident enough that I’ve watched her politely correct attorneys with twenty more years of experience without visibly losing her nerve.
Right now, her shoulders have curled inward.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I thought I was supposed to send the version you approved yesterday.”
“You were supposed to wait for the revision.” The associate isn’t shouting and that almost makes it worse. He’s using that carefully controlled tone people adopt when they want everyone nearby to understand they are being exceptionally patient with someone who has disappointed them.
The paralegal frowns. “I didn’t get another revision.”
“I sent instructions.”
Something in her expression shifts, not into guilt but confusion, and I recognize it immediately.
The frantic internal search for the missing mistake. The assumption that if somebody sounds certain enough that you failed, you probably did. I push my chair back. This has nothing to do with me. Apparently I decide that it does.
I walk over and stop beside her. “What happened?”
The associate glances toward me with obvious irritation. “It’s handled.”
Judging by the relief that crosses the paralegal’s face when she sees me, it very clearly isn’t.
“He says I sent the wrong draft to opposing counsel,” she explains. “I sent the one he approved yesterday. He says there was another revision, but I never got it.”
The associate exhales. “I emailed her.”
I hold his gaze. “Forward me the email.”
His expression changes slightly. “Why?”
“Because if there was a revised instruction, we’ll find it and fix what happened.”
There is a pause just long enough to tell me I’m probably going to enjoy whatever arrives in my inbox.
He turns back to his monitor and I go back to my desk to check on it.
A minute later, the message appears. There is no new attachment, no revised instructions, only a message sent late yesterday asking her to hold the document until he had time to review another section.
I read it twice before turning the screen slightly toward him. “This doesn’t tell her there’s another version.”
“I told her to hold it.”
“You also approved the earlier draft, and nothing here tells her that approval was withdrawn.”
“She should have asked.”