I finally pulled myself back from the state my mind was drowning in. My legs felt stiff, like they barely remembered how to move. I gave one final look to the door and then turned away.
I stepped down the stairs slowly, quietly, my hand trailing along the railing, still half-dazed.
I moved straight to the bathroom. The cold water shocked me back to my senses, or tried to.
After washing up, I stepped inside the kitchen, I didn't realize how much time had passed. I hadn't even started making lunch. My eyes darted to the clock. It was almost lunch time.
Shit.
I moved fast. Pulled out the rice, sliced the vegetables, got the pan heated. I started chopping, trying to focus, trying to act like a normal wife who happened to be running late with the cooking. Nothing else.
But my hands felt clumsy. I kept losing grip on the knife. My thoughts weren't staying still and my chest... It felt tight. Not because of what I had done minutes before. But for different reasons.
Something... felt off.
Like eyes on my back.
I glanced up, casually at first, but then I noticed it. A faint silhouette on the kitchen window. Barely there. But not nothing. Like someone was standing just outside.
My fingers froze on the chopping board.
What the-?? Is someone outside? That didn't make sense. There shouldn't be anyone out there.
I took a step closer to the window, moving without trying to make it obvious. It didn't move. I couldn't tell if it was real. A reflection? A trick of light?
I unlocked the window and pushed it open. Cool air hit my face with low pressure. I pushed my head outside the window to look around.
Empty. Just quiet. The bushes moved a little near the fence. Probably the wind.
I stared for a second, trying to shake the unease. "Weird," I muttered under my breath, pulling back inside.
I didn't bother closing the window. My head felt too full. I picked the knife again, trying to focus. The food wasn't going to cook itself.
After few more minutes of focus on the cooking, I was almost done with the food when I heard the sound.
Footsteps.
He was coming down.
Everything in me locked up at once. Nervousness started crawling through my entire body. My hands shaking as I prepared his plate.
Did he... see?
No. No, he couldn't have. The door never opened. I was sure of that.
Still, I couldn't stop myself from getting anxious.
He didn't see me outside the door like that. Right?
His steps were slow. Lazy. The kind of walk someone takes after waking up from a nap.
His footsteps grew louder and then he appeared, arms stretching, jaw wide in a yawn as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"Ugh, that call went forever," he mumbled, walking closer, not noticing anything strange. Just like always. "My brain's fried."
He moved behind me and, before I could take a step away, his arms wrapped around my waist. His head leaned gently on my shoulder, warm breath kissing my skin. Familiar. Comforting. It should've been.
"Mmm, something smells really good," he murmured. "You always know how to cheer me up."
His praise, his soft tone—it all landed like a dull thud inside me. I swallowed, staring at the plate, the spoon in my hand frozen mid-air.
"You should sit," I said, gently taking his hands off me without turning around. "I'll serve in a second."
There was a pause. Just for a breath. He probably noticed the way my voice cracked slightly, or the way I didn't meet his eyes or maybe how quickly I got his hands off.
"Okay," he said casually, heading to the table.
I let out a anxious breath I didn't even realize I was holding and gripped the edge of the counter. My body still hadn't relaxed.
I somehow served him the food, keeping my eyes on the plate more than on him. My fingers were stiff, fumbling slightly as I placed the bowls down. He didn't say much at first, just stretched his arms with a low groan.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked after a moment, glancing up with a puzzled look. "You look pale."
I nodded, swallowing down the weight in my throat. "Stomach's acting up again. I think I better lie down for a bit."
He paused, spoon in hand. "Don't worry about the dishes then. Just rest, okay? I'll take care of it."
That gentle concern in his voice, that kindness in his eyes—it hit like a punch on my stomach. My chest ached as I nodded again, more quickly this time, afraid I might break if I stood there too long.
I walked out of the room without looking back.
And in my head, I kept telling myself the same thing: this is what I deserve. For letting it happen. For letting myself turn into this.
He didn't know. He couldn't know. That's what hurt the most.
It's not his fault. And maybe… maybe it's not mine either. Maybe I was already broken in ways I never admitted. Maybe this is just how it ends.
I slipped into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the room pressing in around me. Then slowly, I laid down, curling onto my side without bothering to change. The smell of clean sheets wrapped around me like something mocking.
I pulled the blanket up, just enough to cover my waist. Tried to act like I was asleep.
A few minutes passed. The door creaked open very slowly, like he didn't want to wake me up.
Maybe he was checking on me.
I bit the inside of my cheek and kept still, eyes shut.
My chest felt tight again.
Why? Why does he have to be like this?
So gentle. So stupidly kind.
I cursed silently. Stop it. Stop showing so much concern. I don't deserve it.
I wanted to scream it in his face.
But I stayed quiet. The door gently clicked shut after a few seconds and I finally opened my eyes.
I stared at the ceiling. My thoughts were heavy and tangled, like I couldn't untie them even if I tried. The silence pressed down, the weight of the pillow felt strange against my cheek. And at some point, I must've dozed off.
When I opened my eyes again, the light had shifted. It was early evening. The air had that faint golden hue, the kind that told you the day was dying. I sat up slowly, my body heavy, and rubbed my face. I needed to move. To do something. I decided to go out for some groceries.
The streets felt nice. It didn't feel like the time when we first moved here. Back then, it felt scary and so creepy. But not anymore.
Maybe I finally understood.
It's not the place that's scary.
It's the people who lives in it.
I walked with my head low, quiet. Like any other day. Like a normal wife running errands. Just a small list in my hand and a bag hanging loose at my side.
But something itched at the back of my mind. A pull. A chill.
Halfway down the street, I stopped.
The back of my neck felt… strange. Like air brushing too warm, or like breath that wasn't mine. That sense. That eerie sense. Like eyes on me.
I turned around, casually. Not fast. Not slow. Just a glance. Like I was checking the road behind. But there was no one.
Just the street. Empty.
My fingers tightened around the bag strap. A second glance. Still nothing. Some leaves swaying faintly in the wind. Distant noise. A car engine. Everything looked normal.
But the unease remained. Quiet, pressing down on my back like invisible hands.
I shook my head, "I am probably overthinking." And I kept walking.
Groceries done. Bags unpacked. I cooked quietly, not thinking much. Or maybe trying not to.
He came down when dinner was almost ready. Smiled, kissed my cheek, helped me with the plates. I kept my eyes low and slowly started making the usual talks.
Dinner went well. He made his usual stupid jokes, and I couldn't help but laugh at them.
After we finished, he told me to go relax on the sofa—said he'd take care of the dishes. I nodded and walked off quietly.
As I sank into the sofa, I heard the faint clinks and splashes from the kitchen. I stared at the wall, fingers curling into the cushion. I was grateful. I truly was. And that made it worse.
This pain… I was starting to get used to it.
A few more minutes later, he joined me, drying his hands as he sat beside me. Smiling like everything was okay. He turned on a comedy show. The show played on, with his giggles alongside it.
I couldn't focus on the show. The noise filled the room but my mind wasn't really following any of it. I just sat there quietly.
My eyes moved, not toward the screen, but aimlessly toward the walls.
Just then... something caught my eye. Something... moved at the corner of my eyesight.
My gaze instantly shifted toward the window.
The curtain was moving.
Not fluttering, not swaying like it does when a breeze slips through. It was being pulled aside—slow, quiet, unnervingly careful. Like someone was gently peeling it back to peek inside. My chest tightened as I stared.
I couldn't look away. I just sat there, frozen, breath caught, heart thudding louder with every inch the curtain shifted.
Then he laughed again, loud and sudden, and nudged my arm like he wanted me to react. The noise snapped me out of it. The curtain fell back into place, swaying once, like it had never moved at all.
I blinked hard, confused. Maybe I imagined it. I didn't want to believe I hadn't.
He was still smiling, eyes glued to the screen. "He's really funny, isn't he?"
"Y-yeah," I answered, voice low as I forced a small smile, trying to play along while my mind kept circling back to that window.
I tried to focus again, to keep watching the show, but something inside me wouldn't sit still. I could feel the unease again, that scratchy pressure along my back. A few more minutes passed before it finally pushed too hard to ignore. I turned my head toward the window again.
And this time, my heart dropped.
The curtain was wide open. Fully drawn aside.
What?
I muttered under my breath without even meaning to. My throat went dry as I stared at it, unmoving.
I turned slightly toward him, kept my voice calm and pointed towards the window. "Were they always pulled open like that?"
He didn't even look over. Just chuckled again. "Probably. I don't remember."
It didn't feel like a real answer. My skin was prickling. I stood up quietly, pretending I needed something, and walked toward the window with my heart beating in my ears. I didn't look outside. I didn't want to. I just shut the window tightly and pulled the curtain closed, trying not to let my hands shake.
How the hell did it open like that? There wasn't any wind. Not strong enough for that.
I gave the window one last glance before turning back to the couch. My feet moved slower this time. When I sat back down, I slid in closer beside him, not because I was cold, but because I couldn't shake the feeling that something was still watching from behind the glass.
Even with the curtain drawn shut again.