He's Still Here

Elena Rivers

The day passed in fragments.

She couldn't remember what she ate. The TV played in the background, but she couldn't follow a single scene. Even Christopher's warmth when he came home felt distant—like she was floating above her body, watching someone else try to live her life.

She hadn't told him.

Not about the feeling.

Not about the shadows stretching longer in her apartment. Or how every time she looked into the mirror, it felt like someone else was looking back.

She tried to sleep.

Tried.

But the quiet was no longer gentle—it was thick. Heavy with expectation. Her windows were locked. Her curtains drawn. Yet she felt exposed.

She dreamed of him.

Damien.

Not his face. Just the feeling. The way he looked at her. The silence between his words. The way he said her name like it was both punishment and promise.

In the dream, she was alone in a room filled with fog, and his breath kissed the back of her neck, whispering: "You think you've left me."

She woke up sweating, heart thudding wildly. The sheets tangled around her legs like restraints.

She sat up, throat dry.

The room was empty.

But something was different.

She got out of bed and opened her bedroom door. The hallway light flickered once, then steadied. The apartment was quiet—too quiet. And when she reached the living room…

The balcony door was unlocked.

Her breath caught.

She never left it unlocked.

She stood frozen. A part of her wanted to run to the door, throw it open, and scream. Another part knew better. Knew that if she did, and if he was out there—

He'd know.

She was still afraid.

She locked the door again. Slower this time. Calmer.

But as she did, she whispered under her breath—

"He's still here."

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