There’s a weight pressing just behind my skin, like a breath I can’t catch. Something watching. Always watching.

I feel it in the corner of my eye — a shadow slipping away when I turn. A silhouette folded into the city’s noise and neon blur.

At the café, the coffee tastes bitter today — or maybe it’s just the taste of waiting. The letter folded in my jacket pocket burns like a secret.

Who watches the watcher? I trace the words with trembling fingers, but the answer slips through me like smoke.

I try to shake it off, focus on the book in front of me, but my eyes keep flicking to the window.

A man across the street — pale face, dark coat, eyes that don’t quite meet mine. He looks away too fast, as if caught.

My heart hammers — not from fear, but something deeper. Recognition? Doubt? A silent plea?

I stand, leaving the warmth of the café behind. Outside, rain blurs the edges of the world, making everything uncertain and soft.

I walk, faster now, wanting to disappear into the crowd, but the feeling stays — that unseen thread pulling tighter.

In the alley, I stop. Silence swells around me.

Then, a glance behind — nothing but shadows.

But I know he’s there. Waiting.

Watching.

And I wonder — am I the hunter, or the prey?

I reach into my pocket, not sure why. The letter is gone.

In its place, a new one. Smaller. Handwritten.

“The page doesn’t turn until you do”

The ink is still wet.

I look up. But the street is empty.

The rain falls louder now, as if applauding a player I never agreed to perform.