Episode Seven:Tension in the Paint
881 Words
The next morning, I told myself it was a dream.
The man I’d seen across the street. The wave. The alley. It had to be my mind playing tricks on me—too much stress, too little sleep. I hadn’t told Jace.
I couldn’t.
Not yet.
He was painting again, sleeping through the night, finally breathing a little easier. I didn’t want to be the one to drag him back into the spiral.
But the image stayed in my head, sharp and vivid.
And I knew.
It wasn’t my imagination.
We were out grocery shopping when it happened.
The store was small, local, tucked on a quiet street just a few blocks from the apartment.
We were in the frozen aisle, arguing about oat milk versus almond milk, when I saw a reflection in the glass freezer door.
Lucas.
A few feet behind us. Pretending to look at soup cans.
I turned, ready to confront him.
But he was gone.
I rushed to the end of the aisle. Scanned the store.
Nothing.
Jace caught up to me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lied. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”
I forced a smile.
He didn’t question it.
But I knew the lie cost something.
That night, I sat on the fire escape alone, letting the wind numb my thoughts.
Lucas wasn’t finished.
He was circling.
Waiting.
And I didn’t know what he wanted—but I knew what he could still take.
Jace came out a few minutes later, handing me a cup of tea, sitting beside me on the narrow ledge.
“You ever wonder if it’s worth it?” he asked.
“What?”
“This. Us.”
I turned to him.
He was looking at the skyline. Not at me.
“Not because I don’t want it,” he said. “But because of everything it’s already cost.”
I stayed quiet.
“You left a life behind. I left a version of myself I barely survived. And now we’re standing in the middle of something we don’t even know how to name.”
I took a long sip of the tea. Let the silence settle.
Then said, “If this is the middle... I want to see what the ending looks like.”
He turned, eyes soft.
“You’re not scared?”
“I am.”
“Then why stay?”
“Because being scared with you feels better than being numb without you.”
We kissed for the first time in days.
It wasn’t hurried. Wasn’t heated.
It was slow. Unrushed.
Like we were remembering each other’s rhythm.
His hands in my hair. My fingers tracing his jaw.
We moved back inside, stripping off layers like old skin. Slipping beneath blankets like confession.
There was no rush to undress the body when the soul was already bare.
And for the first time, I didn’t flinch at being seen.
After, I lay with my head against his chest, listening to the steadiness of his breath.
“You think it’s always going to be like this?” I asked.
Jace ran his fingers down my spine. “Like what?”
“Beautiful and terrifying.”
He smiled against my hair. “Probably.”
The calm didn’t last.
Two days later, a package arrived.
No return address.
Inside: a USB.
No note.
Jace plugged it into his laptop, his hand trembling as he opened the folder.
Photos. Videos.
Dozens.
All of Jace.
Candid shots from gallery events. Him walking down the street. Reading on a park bench. Sleeping in our apartment.
Taken from a distance. Zoomed in. Some as recent as last week.
He scrolled faster. Jaw clenching. Breathing hard.
Then he opened the last file.
A video.
It was Lucas’s voice.
Off-camera.
Speaking directly to Jace.
“I told you I’d always be watching. You let someone else think they could protect you? You think people forget who you are?”
Jace slammed the laptop shut.
The silence that followed felt colder than any threat.
I stood.
“We have to go to the police. Now.”
Jace shook his head. “They’ll log it. That’s it. No arrest. No protection. Not unless he breaks a law.”
“This is harassment.”
“It’s stalking,” he whispered. “But it’s not violent. Not yet.”
“Do you want to wait until it is?”
He looked up at me.
And I saw it.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Guilt.
“This is happening because I tried to heal.”
“No,” I said. “This is happening because he never let go of his control.”
Jace stood slowly. Walked across the room. Pressed his forehead to the wall.
Then: “I’m going to post it.”
“The video?”
“Not that. My story. Everything. Online. Public. If he’s going to stalk me, I want people to know who he is.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” he whispered. “But I’m tired of feeling like the villain in my own life.”
The next morning, Jace hit “post.”
One photo.
One caption.
One truth:
“I was hurt. I survived. This is my voice now. I won’t be silent again.”
- Writer
