It had been three weeks since Zeal left the hospital.
Her shoulder wound had healed, but something in her eyes hadn't. The light that used to make her face glow was dimmer now — quieter, like she was hiding from her own memories.
I visited her every evening after work.
She lived in a small apartment at the city's edge — a quiet place where the hum of cars faded into the rhythm of rain. Sometimes, when I knocked, she didn't answer right away. But I still waited. I always waited.
We never talked about that night.
We never mentioned Michael.
But every silence between us was filled with what we didn't say.
⸻
One evening, as I stirred noodles on her stove, Zeal spoke without turning around.
"Do you still remember this place?" she asked.
I looked up. "You mean the school?"
She nodded, still facing the window. "Yeah. The classroom near the garden… I used to watch you from there."
I smiled, half-shy. "You were the quiet type back then."
"And you," she turned to look at me, her eyes soft, "were always in a hurry — like the world was chasing you."
I laughed. "Maybe it still is."
For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed — just two girls sharing dinner, pretending time hadn't broken them apart. The rain against the window made it feel like a memory was trying to breathe again.
⸻
When I was about to leave, I hugged her. She hesitated before wrapping her arms around me — gently, as if afraid I might fade away.
"Text me when you lock the door," I told her.
She nodded.
But the text never came.
⸻
I didn't know it yet, but while I walked home, she was sitting by that same window, staring into the dark street below. A message had appeared on her phone.
Unknown Number: "You escaped once. Not again."
She dropped the phone, heart racing.
Outside, lightning tore through the night — and for a moment, under the flickering streetlight, a man stood watching her window.
It was Michael.
Or someone pretending to be him.
⸻
By the time I reached home, my chest ached — like a voice in me was whispering that something was wrong.
And I should've listened.