Not About Him: Part Two

Maybe it was the message she got late at night— the one she deleted, but still thinks about every time her phone buzzes. Or the name she saw scrawled on the mirror in the bathroom stall, the same one that followed her home once. She never talks about it. She just walks a little faster now. Keeps her keys between her fingers. Smiles less. Or the way she flinches—barely, but enough—when someone says "accident" like it’s just another word. She gives a tired smile— as if knowing, but never showing. You could look at her and think she’s fine. But that’s the thing about fear. It hides in plain sight. “She’s so dramatic,” they say. “Why can’t she just accept it?” Why can’t she just say yes, or stop running, or turn around and ask, Why are you following me? But why would she? She’s scared. And not just because it’s dark. Not because there’s a man behind her. I don’t even think she’s scared of him. It’s something deeper— Older— His intentions