Page 18 of Watching You
The way he looked at me like he already knew the shape of my thoughts. The way his voice slid under my skin, low and certain, like he wasn’t guessing. Like he’d already decided who I was. The way he said thosewords—You’re not invisible—not as comfort, but as fact. As a warning. As a claim.
I fold the note again, tighter this time, and slip it into the smallest pocket of my bag, the one I never use. It feels like it belongs there, tucked away but close. A secret I didn’t ask for. A thread I can’t stop pulling.
I sit still for a long time, the dorm quiet around me, the light outside shifting from gray to gold. My planner lies open on the desk, untouched. My pen rests beside it, perfectly aligned. But I don’t move. I don’t write. I don’t breathe the way I’m supposed to.
Because Kane is watching.
Because Kane sees me.
Because Kane left me a message in my own world, and I let him in.
I open my journal to a fresh page, the spine creaking softly as I press it flat against the desk. The lines stare back at me, clean and expectant, waiting for order. I always write in the mornings—before class, before noise, before the world has a chance to touch me. It’s part of the system. A ritual. A way to stay clean.
I date the page. September 12.
I underline it twice.
Then I sit there, pen poised, hand trembling slightly.
I should start with gratitude. That’s what the therapist said. Three things I’m grateful for. Three things that anchor me. But my mind won’t settle. It keeps circling the note. The words. The ink. The way it felt in my hand, smooth, deliberate, intimate.
You’re notinvisible.
I write it down. Not in quotes. Not as a memory. Just as a fact.
You’re not invisible.
The pen scratches across the page, and I stare at the sentence like it doesn’t belong to me. Like someone else wrote it. Like it’s a message carved into my skin by someone who knows how to find the soft spots.
I remember his voice.
Low. Steady.
The way he said it like he wasn’t trying to comfort me.
Like he was claiming something.
I try to write something else, anything else, but the words won’t come. My routines are supposed to protect me. The journaling. The counting. The order. But they’re failing. Cracking. Rotting from the inside.
I write:
I don’t know what he wants.
I don’t know why he’s watching.
I don’t know how long he’s been close.
Then I cross it out. Hard. Angry. Like erasing it will make it untrue. Like if I press hard enough, the ink will vanish and take the thought with it. But it doesn’t. The words bleed through the page, ghosting beneath the lines like a bruise that won’t fade.
Because it’s not untrue.
It’s real.
He’s real.
Kane Fischer. My best friend’s older brother. The one with the bruised knuckles and the blacked-out Range Rover. The one who used to walk past me like I didn’texist—until something shifted. Until he looked at me like he’d been looking all along and just hadn’t decided what to do about it.
And now I can’t stop feeling it.
