Page 17 of Watching You
You’re not invisible.
That’s all. That’s enough.
I slide it into the slot, the metal lip clicking shut with a soft finality that feels louder than it should. Then I step back, hands still in my pockets, heart steady.
She’ll find it. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning, when she checks her mail like she always does—same time, same rhythm, same routine she clings to like it’s armor.
She’ll read it. She’ll feel it. She’ll wonder.
And she’ll know.
Someone sees her.
Someone’s watching.
Someone’s close.
Me.
Seven
Blair
The mailroom is always cold in the mornings, the kind of institutional chill that seeps through your sleeves and makes you feel like you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, casting a pale, sterile glow across the tiled floor that never quite feels clean. I come here early, always early, before the building stirs, before the hallway fills with footsteps and voices and the chaos of other people’s lives. It’s part of the system. I count the steps from the elevator to the alcove—six to the corner, three to the wall of metal boxes. I unlock mine with the same key I’ve used since move-in day, the one with the tiny chip in the corner that I always align just right. It sticks, like it always does, and I twist harder until the latch gives way with a soft metallic click.
Inside, there’s the usual clutter. A flyer for some campus event I won’t attend. A coupon for pizza I won’t eat. And then, something else. A folded piece ofpaper. No envelope. No markings. Just white, clean, and tucked neatly between the junk like it belongs there. I stare at it for a moment, heart ticking faster, unsure if I should touch it. It’s not from the school. Not from a friend. No one writes me notes. Not ever. My fingers hesitate, hovering just above the crease, and then I take it. The paper is smooth, the fold sharp, like whoever left it did so with care. I unfold it slowly, deliberately, like I’m peeling back something fragile.
There’s only one line. No name. No signature. Just three words written in dark ink, the letters precise and deliberate, like a whisper carved into silence.
You’re not invisible.
I blink. Read it again. And again. The words don’t change, but something inside me does. My breath catches, shallow and uneven, and I glance around the mailroom instinctively, suddenly aware of how small it is. How exposed. The walls feel closer now, the light harsher, the silence louder. No one’s here. But I feel watched. Not in the obvious way—not like someone’s standing behind me—but in the way that makes your skin prickle and your spine stiffen. Like someone’s been watching for a while. Like someone knows things they shouldn’t.
The note trembles in my hand, not because it’s threatening, but because it’s true. Someone sees me. Not the version I show in class, not the girl who folds hersweater and counts her steps and keeps her voice low. Me. The real me. The one who checks the lock twice. The one who breathes in fours when the panic starts to rise. The one who thinks she’s invisible because it’s safer that way. I swallow hard, throat tight, and fold the paper again, slower this time, more carefully. I don’t throw it away. Don’t crumple it. Don’t even consider it. I tuck it into the pocket of my hoodie like it’s something sacred. Something dangerous. Something I need to keep.
I walk back to the elevator, steps uneven now. I don’t count them. I can’t. The system doesn’t work when someone’s watching. And someone is. I don’t know who. I don’t know why. But I know this: they see me. And that changes everything.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the note still folded in my hand, thumb brushing the crease like it might reveal something more if I touch it long enough. The dorm is quiet, early light bleeding through the blinds in soft streaks that don’t quite reach the corners. My desk lamp is still on, casting a warm glow across my notebooks, my planner, and the carefully stacked pens that I realigned twice this morning. Everything is in its place. Everything is how it should be.
Except me.
I unfold the note again, slower this time, letting the paper stretch open like a wound.You’re not invisible.The words stare back at me, sharp and deliberate, like they were written by someone who knows how to cut without leaving blood. I read them once. Twice. A third time. And then it hits me.
He said that.
Kane.
He said those exact words to me outside the classroom, voice low, breath warm against my cheek, close enough that I felt it in my spine. I didn’t react then—not fully. I was too busy trying to hold onto my routine, too busy counting steps and checking my bag and pretending I wasn’t unraveling. But I remember now. The way he looked at me. The way he didn’t blink. The way he said it like it was a fact, not a compliment. Not a threat. Just the truth.
You think you’re invisible. You’re not.
The memory floods in, uninvited and vivid. His eyes—dark, unreadable. His voice—steady, quiet, intimate in a way that felt invasive. I remember the way my breath caught, the way my skin prickled, the way I wanted to step back but couldn’t. And now the words are here again, written in ink, tucked into my mailbox like a secret I didn’t ask for.
I press the note flat against my thigh, heart thudding harder now. It’s not just a coincidence. It’s not random. It’s him. He left this. He wrote it. He wants me to remember.
And I do.
I remember everything.
