In this city, softness was a liability, and I had spent years learning how to hide mine.
Neon lights flickered against wet pavement as I stood outside the bus station, my coat pulled tight against the night air. The city smelled like rain and burnt fuel, like something trying to erase itself. Somewhere behind me, a train screeched, metal crying against metal. It felt like the sound inside my chest.
I hadn't planned on coming back.
I told myself I had. I made lists. I rehearsed excuses. I pretended this return was temporary, practical, harmless. But the truth pressed against my ribs: I had run once, and now the city had called me home like a threat.
A black sedan idled across the street, headlights low and watching. I ignored it. In this city, cars watched. So did men. So did memories.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and stepped forward.
Every block felt familiar in the way scars feel familiar—recognized without needing to be touched. The bakery on Ninth had shut down. The mural near the bridge had been painted over with something angrier. Even the streetlights seemed dimmer, like they'd grown tired of trying.
By the time I reached the apartment building, my hands were shaking.
Three floors up. No elevator. Same cracked stairs. Same peeling door numbers. My breath came fast as I unlocked the door to the apartment I swore I'd never see again.
It was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I was bigger now. The walls were bare. The air smelled like dust and old secrets. I dropped my bag and stood still, listening to the quiet. Quiet in this city never meant peace. It meant waiting.
I didn't come back for nostalgia. I came back for answers.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
Unknown Number.
I stared at it, heart thudding. I hadn't given anyone my new line. Not my mother. Not the one friend I trusted. Definitely not him.
Unknown Number:
You made it.
My fingers went cold.
I didn't reply.
The phone buzzed again.
You shouldn't have come alone.
That was how he always spoke—like a warning dressed as concern.
I crossed the room and locked the door. The sound felt thin. Useless.
Me:
Who is this?
Three dots appeared instantly.
Don't pretend.
I dropped onto the edge of the couch, pulse in my throat.
I hadn't said his name in three years. Saying it now felt like summoning something that preferred the dark.
Me:
Why are you texting me?
There was a pause this time. Long enough for fear to bloom.
Because you're in danger.
I laughed once. Sharp. Broken.
That was his favorite line. The one he used when danger was standing right behind him.
A knock came at the door.
I froze.
Three knocks. Slow. Deliberate.
My phone buzzed.
Don't open it.
My lungs forgot how to work.
Another knock. Louder.
I crept to the door and peered through the peephole.
No one was there.
My chest hurt.
The phone vibrated again.
They're watching you.
I turned the lock anyway.
The hallway was empty, lit by a single flickering bulb. The air felt wrong—too still, like the building was holding its breath. A folded piece of paper lay on the floor just outside my door.
I picked it up.
It wasn't a letter.
It was a photograph.
Me.
At the bus station.
Taken from across the street.
My stomach dropped.
Written on the back in black ink were three words:
YOU SHOULDN'T RUN.
I stumbled back inside and slammed the door shut, heart racing so hard it hurt. My phone buzzed again.
Now do you believe me?
Me:
What do you want from me?
For you to remember.
The word felt like a knife.
I sank onto the floor, the photo shaking in my hand. Remembering wasn't safe. Remembering was how people disappeared.
Three years ago, someone had signed a paper with my name on it without my consent. Three years ago, I'd almost paid for it with my life. Three years ago, I had trusted the wrong person.
Him.
Me:
You're part of the reason I left.
A pause.
And the reason you survived.
I closed my eyes.
Rain began tapping against the windows, soft and relentless.
Me:
Who took the photo?
Someone who wants what you know.
I swallowed.
"I don't know anything," I whispered to the empty room.
The phone buzzed.
That's the lie they're counting on.
Another knock came—hard this time.
Not polite.
Not patient.
"Open up!" a man's voice called. "Management."
My phone vibrated again.
That's not management.
My pulse thundered.
The doorknob twisted.
I backed away, grabbing the heaviest thing I could reach—a lamp. My hands shook as the lock rattled.
"Miss, you need to open this door."
The voice was calm. Too calm.
My phone buzzed one last time.
If they get inside, you won't leave this city again.
The lock clicked.
The handle turned.
And through the thin wood of the door, I heard another sound—
Footsteps running up the stairs.
Fast.
Urgent.
Familiar.
The door burst open just as someone slammed into it from the other side, forcing it back shut.
A man stood between me and the hallway, breathing hard.
Tall. Dark jacket. Rain in his hair.
And eyes I hadn't seen in three years.
"Did you miss me?" he said.
And behind him, down the stairwell, voices shouted my name.