Page 11 of Watching You
It’s ridiculous, he’s gone, but it feels like he’s still here. Like the air hasn’t moved on yet.
I fold the last T-shirt, but my hands won’t stop moving. I trace the edge of the dresser, then the corner of my bed frame, then the seam of the blanket.
It’s not about neatness. It’s about silence.
The house was too quiet. No TV. No music. No yelling. Just the sound of the fridge humming and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
I tiptoed into the kitchen, barefoot, careful not to step on the broken glass. A pill bottle lay on its side, capsules scattered like confetti across the linoleum.
Mom was crouched in the corner, rocking back and forth, muttering to herself. Her mascara was smeared, her eyes wild. Dad was facedown on the couch, shirtless, a needle still stuck in his arm.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just stared.
Then I saw the forks.
Four of them, lying in a messy pile on the counter. I don’t know why I reached for them. I just did. I lined them up, handles to the left, tines facing the same way, evenly spaced.
And Mom didn’t scream at me.
That night, I folded my pajamas into perfect squares. I counted the steps to my bedroom. I checked the lock on my window six times.
Because if I could make things neat, maybe I could make things safe.
When Mom disappeared for three days, I counted the cracks in the ceiling.
When Dad sold my bike for cash, I rearranged my books by color, then by height, then by author.
When the cops came, I folded my clothes and pretended I didn’t hear them asking if I felt safe.
I didn’t.
But I knew how to make it look like I did.
Even now, years later, I still count. Still fold. Still check.
I smooth the same T-shirt again, even though it’s already perfect. Once. Twice. Three times. The third fold feels wrong, so I do it again. Four.
But my pulse doesn’t slow.
I tell myself it’s just Kane being Kane, cocky, intrusive, impossible to ignore. That’s all it is.
Except… it’s not.
He didn’t just look at my clothes. Hesawthem. Saw me. The way I keep things in order. The way I need them to be right. And the way it unsettles me when they’re not.
And I hate that I’m wondering if he’s been paying attention to that all along.
I hate that I’m wondering what he’d do with that knowledge.
I hate that part of me already knows.
I line the edge of my shirt with the lip of the drawer, pressing it flat until it’s perfect. My breathing evens out,but the calm feels fragile, like one wrong move could shatter it.
And Kane Fischer? He’s nothing but wrong moves.
Five
Blair
