I'd been looking forward to this move.
A fresh start. A quieter life. Just the two of us, away from the noise and rush. The pictures had looked beautiful—trees lining the roads, neighbors smiling, clean sidewalks where kids played. It seemed… safe. Like a dream I didn't even realize I needed.
But the moment we turned onto the street, my chest tightened.
It was too quiet. The kind of quiet where you hold your breath without realizing it. Where you feel like you shouldn't speak too loudly, even though there's no one around.
I stepped out first. My legs were stiff from the drive. The sun felt nice, but the air… didn't. It was like walking into a room where someone had just been talking about you. That strange hush, like something had paused.
I bent down to grab the bag that had slipped from my lap. And that's when I felt it.
Eyes.
Not the curious kind. Not the polite glance. Just… eyes. Heavy. Creepy.
I looked up and saw him—an old man across the street, slouched in a plastic chair. His shirt looked thin and worn, and he just… stared. Not blinking. Not smiling.
Right at me.
My face flushed instantly. I stood up straight and looked away, pretending not to notice. I didn't know what to do. I felt silly for feeling uncomfortable—he was just an old man, right? But something about his eyes made me feel… uncomfortable. Not seen. Just looked at.
I didn't want to say anything. It felt too awkward to bring up. Maybe I was just being sensitive.
My husband stepped between us. I saw him glance over, then back at me. His jaw was tight. He didn't say a word either, just carried a box inside.
So I followed him.
As we unpacked, I tried to distract myself. But the house didn't feel right either. It looked clean in the pictures, but up close, it was like a mask was peeling off. The doors didn't close properly, the windows let in too much air, and the whole place had this strange… worn-out feeling.
Still, I smiled and said it would be fine. Because that's what you do when you're trying to be hopeful.
Later, I stepped outside to fix the doormat. I wanted it to look nice, like a real home. I didn't even notice them at first—two men walking down the street, shirts clinging to their skin from the heat.
Then I felt it again.
That weight. That watching. When I looked up, they were already looking at me.
I glanced away quickly, pretending to focus on the mat, my fingers fidgeting with the corners even though it was already straight.
I didn't understand why it made me feel so… nervous. I wasn't doing anything. I wasn't even dressed up. I wasn't trying to get attention.
But it didn't matter.
I knew my husband saw them too. I felt his gaze from inside the house—he always noticed more than he let on. I felt guilty, like I'd done something wrong just by existing in their line of sight. And I hated that feeling.
That night, as we sat on the floor with food between us, he looked at me and asked:
"Do you feel it too?"
I looked at him, confused. "Feel what?"
Then it hit me. Like a wave crashing over still water— the meaning behind his question. I felt it too. But the joy he once carried about leaving the noise behind and building a new life together... I didn't want to be the reason he questioned it. I didn't want to scare him. Or admit how weird everything felt. I didn't want to be that wife—too jumpy, too sensitive, too much trouble over nothing.
But the truth was, I already knew something felt off.
This place didn't feel like a beginning. It felt like something was already in motion. Something we hadn't agreed to.
That night as we lay in bed, I curled into him. His arm around my waist always made me feel safe, like nothing could reach me. But even with him holding me, I couldn't stop thinking about that old man. Those men on the street. The way they looked at me like I wasn't really a person.
Just… something else.
And I didn't know what to call that feeling yet.
But I knew I didn't like it.