Page 14 of Watching You
“I have a system,” I say.
Hehums. “I know.”
That makes me stop, making students move around me.
I turn to him, heart ticking faster. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me.
“I’ve seen you,” he says finally. “Before you saw me.”
My throat tightens. “When?”
“Long enough to know you count your steps. That you check your bag twice. That you breathe in fours when you’re trying not to panic.”
I freeze.
He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “You think you’re invisible. You’re not.”
The hallway feels smaller now. The air is tighter.
I count my steps to the door.
One. Two. Three.
But the numbers slip.
He’s still watching me.
And I hate that part of me wants him to keep doing it.
Six
Kane
Igrip the ball, fingers tight on the laces. The sun’s brutal, helmet heavy, pads biting into my shoulders.
“Trips right, X slant, Z go,” I call out. My voice cuts through the noise. The guys snap to attention.
I’m the captain.
The quarterback.
The one they follow.
I read the defense. Watch the safeties shift. I know this drill. I’ve run it a hundred times. But today, it’s muscle memory. Because my mind’s not here.
I’m thinking about her.
Blair.
The way she walks—fast, precise, like she’s trying to outrun something no one else can see. The way her fingers twitch when she’s anxious. The way she counts.
I saw her do it again today. Steps to the stairwell. Tiles on the floor. Breaths.
She thinks it keeps her safe.
She’s wrong.
