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New lifeI moved to this city last month for a new job—better pay, new routines, the promise of something different. The first weeks were a blur of orientation, names, and onboarding documents, but the commute was starting to feel familiar: the same bus route, the same stop, the same half-hour to catch up on messages and podcasts.
This morning I was sitting by the window, phone in hand, scrolling through notifications as the city slid by. It felt like any other day at the new office—nervous energy tempered by excitement. I didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary, yet I couldn’t help noticing a man across the aisle. He kept glancing in my direction, then down at his screen, as if trying to place something or someone. His look wasn’t hostile—more puzzled, curious.
At first I shrugged it off; strangers notice strangers on public transit all the time. I returned to my messages and tried to be indifferent, though the repeated glances made me mildly uneasy. When the bus reached my stop I stood, gathered my bag, and stepped onto the sidewalk. I assumed the moment would dissolve in the routine shuffle of the morning.
Instead, the man rose a second later and followed me off the bus. The casual rhythm of my commute shifted into something taut and uncertain: footsteps matching mine, a presence close enough to register but far enough to be ambiguous. I kept walking, heart beating a fraction faster.
This morning I was sitting by the window, phone in hand, scrolling through notifications as the city slid by. It felt like any other day at the new office—nervous energy tempered by excitement. I didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary, yet I couldn’t help noticing a man across the aisle. He kept glancing in my direction, then down at his screen, as if trying to place something or someone. His look wasn’t hostile—more puzzled, curious.
At first I shrugged it off; strangers notice strangers on public transit all the time. I returned to my messages and tried to be indifferent, though the repeated glances made me mildly uneasy. When the bus reached my stop I stood, gathered my bag, and stepped onto the sidewalk. I assumed the moment would dissolve in the routine shuffle of the morning.
Instead, the man rose a second later and followed me off the bus. The casual rhythm of my commute shifted into something taut and uncertain: footsteps matching mine, a presence close enough to register but far enough to be ambiguous. I kept walking, heart beating a fraction faster.
