Chapter 10 Cece
Cece
What started as another tough week has eased over the last few days.
Maybe it’s the fact that I said it out loud to Kate that makes me feel a little less like I’m losing my mind.
Like I hadn’t imagined it all. Speaking it into the universe somehow makes it both real and, oddly, more manageable.
It doesn’t erase what happened, but it lets me breathe again. Just enough sanity to function.
Well, sort of.
Still, I find my footing again. Slowly. Meetings at work no longer feel like endurance tests.
I’m sharper and more present. Even Daniel has stopped watching me like I might fall apart mid-sentence.
Corinne gives me an approving glance after one of our meetings wraps. It isn’t much, but it’s something.
I even get back to my nightly runs. The air is cooler than usual tonight, carrying that early autumn crispness that makes everything feel a little more alive.
Each stride cuts through the fog in my mind.
My lungs burn, my muscles ache, but in the best way.
For the first time in days, I’m not thinking about missing time or a mysterious man who defies logic. I’m just . . . moving forward.
After a couple of miles, I slow, catching my breath as I curve onto a familiar side street.
The plan is simple. Treat myself to my budgeted dinner from my favorite little takeout spot, head home, and curl up with something mindless to stream.
It’ll be a perfect night, I think, as my feet hit the pavement.
Before I can even finish the thought, I sense it.
That eerie, unmistakable pull. The sensation of being watched. Not just watched, tracked.
I pause and glance casually over my shoulder. An empty street. A flickering streetlamp. A parked car or two. No one. Still, the feeling doesn’t go away.
My legs move quicker. Not a sprint, nothing dramatic, but enough to tell the quiet tension roiling beneath my skin that I’m not ignoring it. I turn down a narrow alley I’ve taken hundreds of times without thinking.
Tonight, I’m focused on my path. Then I realize the footsteps behind me aren’t fading. They’re keeping time with mine.
Careful. On purpose. Close.
My pulse quickens, panic edging into my throat. I don’t turn around. I refuse to. I just keep moving.
Get out of there. Go! a voice in my head urges.
So I move faster now. The main street is only a block away. Lights. People. Safety. Voices echo ahead. Traffic. The distant wail of a siren. Then the footsteps behind me grow louder.
Closer.
I pick up my pace again. They’re close enough that I can feel them at my back. A shadow darts at the edge of my vision, gaining.
Run faster! the voice insists, even though it doesn’t feel like my own.
I break into a run, my vision narrowing. My breath turns ragged, lungs burning like they’re about to burst. Anxiety claws up my throat.
Then the alley ends, spilling me into the city’s glow. The second my feet hit the sidewalk, the shadow is gone. As if it had never been there.
No one follows. No one chases.
The voice is gone too. But the dread lingers.
I slip into the Thai restaurant on autopilot, pushing through the door like it might save me.
Inside, it’s warm, bustling, normal. People laugh, place orders, tap on phones.
I position myself near the window, eyes fixed on the street, waiting for someone, anyone, to pass who looks out of place.
The sidewalk remains innocuous, almost taunting in its normalcy.
I order my usual, though my appetite is gone.
As I wait, I pull my phone from the side pocket of my leggings, fingers trembling as I open the rideshare app.
There’s no way I’m walking home. Not tonight.
I’m definitely not being paranoid. Considering the break-in, the incident at the train station, and now this, something is happening.
But who, or what, is behind it? And why?
By the time the rideshare pulls up in front of my building, I feel half-convinced I imagined it all. I suppose that’s how fear works sometimes. It stretches a moment, distorts it, until you’re not sure what was real and what was just the echo of panic.
But my heart still hasn’t settled, and that’s not something I can dismiss. The kind of fear that lingers after you’re safe usually means something. I thank the driver, grab my food, and hurry up the stairs.
My apartment greets me with its usual soft lamplight and the faint scent of the eucalyptus candle I blew out before leaving for my run.
Normally, that smell settles me. Normally, this space feels like mine.
Warm. Quiet. Safe. But as I step inside and turn the lock, sliding the deadbolt and fastening the chain, the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease. Not yet.
Without looking, I drop the takeout on the kitchen counter, my stomach too tangled to care.
My feet move on their own, carrying me from window to window.
I test each latch twice. All locked. The street outside is still.
No lingering shadows. No strange movement in the dark.
Still, I close the curtains anyway. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know better.
It isn’t until I stand in the center of my living room, my small island of quiet, that I finally exhale. Not relief. Just . . . surrender? Whatever followed me, if it was even real, is gone. For now.
Soft pajamas and fuzzy socks come next, their familiar textures offering a small anchor. For a moment, they help. The tightness in my chest eases just enough. My appetite still hasn’t returned, so I slide the takeout into the fridge and tell myself I’ll deal with it later.
I relight the eucalyptus candle, let its warm scent fill the room again, and make a cup of tea, hands wrapped around the mug like it’s something solid to hold onto. Then I curl up on the couch, sinking into the cushions.
But the quiet gives my thoughts room to move. Everything I’ve shoved to the edges of my mind all week starts drifting back in. The station. The light of the train. Him.
He’s been living in the back of my thoughts ever since that night. Not because of what happened, or even what he did, but because of what I felt. Like some part of me recognized him, even in the chaos. Even when nothing else made sense.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and grab my phone. I want to get the thoughts out of my head. I open my notes app and start typing, letting the words come without overthinking them.
Things I can’t explain:
·The push.
·Falling onto the train tracks.
·The strange place he took me, somewhere that didn’t feel real.
·Lucien.
·The way he looked at me, like he knew me.
·His hands. They didn’t just pull me to safety; they moved us. The light surrounded us when it happened.
· How it felt. Weightless. Electric. Like something inside me became different somehow.
·Tonight—the shadow. It was watching me. I know it was.
·And what was that voice in my head? It definitely wasn’t mine.
My eyes settle on the words, my heart pounding. Then I add one more sentence, the thought I haven’t said aloud:
·I think something’s waking up in me.
I’m not even sure what that means. But it feels true. Something in me has changed. I feel more in tune with all of this. Or maybe it was always there, buried deep? Silent and waiting. Maybe that night, something cracked it open. And now, whatever it is, it’s no longer asleep.
The next day, I try to stay in rhythm. Keep things predictable. Safe. Work goes by in a blur, but I get through it by checking off boxes. Lead a presentation with Corinne that doesn’t fall apart. Make Daniel laugh once, even though I’m not sure what I said was actually funny. Still, it’s progress.
So when Daniel reminds me about the happy hour we’re supposed to attend with two collaborators and a couple of colleagues from the project team, I don’t say no.
“I’ll swing by,” I tell him, pretending I hadn’t already planned to crawl into bed with leftover takeout and a documentary I had no real interest in watching.
Because I need to do something normal. Something that reminds me I belong here, in this world, with its rooftop bars and overpriced cocktails and the sound of glass clinking over tired small talk.
The venue is one of those trendy hotel lounges with dim lighting and a gorgeous skyline view that makes people feel important just by standing near it. When Daniel and I arrive, most of the team is already there, drinks in hand, business-casual smiles firmly in place.
“What’s your poison?” Daniel asks, leaning in close. The nearness and his casual tone catch me off guard.
“Oh, I’ll have a glass of pinot noir, thanks,” I say, subtly shifting back to put some space between us.
He gives me a hint of a smile, then heads to the bar while I go claim the seats I’d spotted earlier.
And just as I move to sit, the air changes.
It’s subtle, but I feel it. A shiver runs through me, and immediately I know.
I don’t see him at first. But I feel him before I can find a face, before I can explain why my chest tightens the way it does.
The sensation isn’t threatening, like the presence I felt on the night of my run.
It’s . . . intimate. Like being observed by someone who understands me in ways others don’t.
Slowly, my eyes drift toward the far corner of the room, near the windows.
And there he is.
Half-cast in shadow, just beyond the reach of the candlelight. He looks the same as before, and yet entirely different. Stillness radiates from him, like he isn’t part of the room at all. He isn’t dressed like anyone else here. And he doesn’t move like them either.
And yet, he’s here. Watching me.
He isn’t staring the way men sometimes do at bars. This feels different. As if he’s trying to figure something out about me. Like he’s paying real attention.
We make eye contact, and for a moment, I lose myself. I forget what I was doing. Everything narrows down to him.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t say anything. He just keeps watching me, bold and completely unfazed by the fact that I’ve noticed.
Then, in a blink, he’s gone.
“Hey.” Daniel’s voice cuts through the haze as he sets a drink on the table in front of me, as if the world is still perfectly ordinary. Maybe for him, it is. “You alright? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, eyes still fixed on the spot where Lucien had been. “Feels like I did.”
Great.
The words slip out before I can stop them. I force a small smile and grab my drink, hoping Daniel chalks it up to a strange, fleeting moment. Anything but the truth.
But my heart is racing. He was watching me. Lucien.
And deep down, some part of me isn’t sure whether I want him to disappear into the night or step out of the shadows and come closer.
Another part of me, the restless, reckless part, wants to close the distance between us.
To be nearer to him. To ask him everything.
All the questions that have kept me awake for weeks.
Every impossible thing I saw and still can’t explain.
And suddenly, the normal I’ve been chasing feels empty. Like something I’ve already outgrown. What once felt safe now feels strange. As if I’ve stepped into a life that no longer fits.
And instead of fearing the darkness beyond it, I’m beginning to crave it.