Page 32 of Fractured Allegiance
If someone was watching?
They’d see the exact moment I exhale.
They’d know I’m still trying to convince myself I’m safe.
And I hate that most of all.
I step into the building without looking up.
Second floor. No elevator. Paint peeling on the banister where someone scratched in initials years ago. Every step on the stairs makes the same groan, like the whole place is breathing through its bones.
I don’t trust the stillness here.
It’s too thin.
I get to my door, key already in hand. Three locks. I twist the first one hard, jiggle the second. The deadbolt takes two full turns before the latch gives. I push the door open fast.
My apartment greets me with the same dull, familiar ache at the sight of the two rooms, beige walls, and curtains that pretend to keep the world out. It’s the kind of space you rent when you don’t plan to stay long. Or when you need to disappear somewhere even the light forgets.
I re-lock all three bolts.
Then unlock the top one again just to re-check it.
I breathe in.
And immediately hate myself for how tight it sounds.
The dress hits the floor before I reach the kitchen.
I don’t bother with music. I don’t want noise.
Just something to fill the space between the seconds.
I pour gin into a heavy glass. No tonic. No garnish. Just the burn.
Then I walk to the window, the only one I rarely open.
The second floor gives me just enough of a view to see the crosswalk. The alley mouth. The rusted hood of a truck that hasn’t moved in two months.
I take a sip.
Wait.
The drink doesn’t help.
It never does. Not with this.
Because this isn’t panic.
It’s something colder. Slower.
It’s knowing, on a cellular level, that someone’s already behind the curtain.
Not here, not in the room, but near enough to breathe in sync with you if they wanted to.
I don’t move.
I just watch.
