Until you're mine

Neha’s POV The feeling crept up my spine again. That unshakable sense of being watched. I exhaled slowly, forcing my hands to remain steady as I signed off on another patient’s chart. It was just exhaustion, I told myself. Too many sleepless nights. Too many long shifts in the hospital. It wasn’t unusual for my nerves to fray at the edges after back-to-back rotations. And yet… I glanced up, my gaze sweeping across the waiting area of the hospital. Patients sat slumped in chairs, some scrolling through their phones, others lost in quiet misery. A mother bounced a crying toddler on her knee. An elderly man rubbed his temples, a deep frown cutting into his wrinkled face. Everything looked normal. But normal didn’t explain the chill at the back of my neck. This feeling—this eerie, skin-crawling awareness—had started a few months ago. At first, it was just a passing thought, an odd moment where I felt like someone’s gaze lingered a little too long. But then it became more frequent. Walking to my car at night, I felt unseen eyes trailing my every step. Sitting in my office, I swore I heard faint footsteps outside my door, only to find the hallway empty when I checked. Even at home, in the sanctuary of my apartment, I’d catch myself glancing over my shoulder, searching for something—someone—that wasn’t there. I told myself it was nothing. A trick of the mind. Stress-induced paranoia. After all, who would watch me? Who would follow me? I shook my head and scribbled my signature on the paper before me. I was being ridiculous. "Dr. Neha?" I looked up, forcing a polite smile as the nurse approached. "Yes?" "Your next patient is in Room 4. Just arrived." I nodded and pushed to my feet, rolling the tension from my shoulders. Whatever I’d felt, whatever had made my skin prickle—it was nothing. Just exhaustion. Still, as I walked toward Room 4, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching. That someone had been watching for a long time. I thought about how my life had changed over the last few months. As a cardiac surgeon, I had long been used to the grueling hours, the late-night surgeries, the constant hum of machines in the OR. It had never bothered me before. In fact, I thrived in the chaos. My patients were my world, and the hospital felt like home. But outside of work? That was a different story. My personal life was a barren desert, a collection of missed calls and half-empty texts. I hadn’t been in a serious relationship in years, not since residency had swallowed my time whole. Friends had come and gone, and I rarely had time for a social life. Dinner with colleagues after a shift? Sometimes. But I was more often found huddled over a patient’s chart or a cup of cold coffee in the break room. I lived alone in a small apartment downtown, the kind of place you rented out of necessity, not because you were excited to host dinner parties or invite people over. The walls were thin, the carpet faded, and the view from the window was of the alley behind the building, where the streetlights flickered intermittently. I kept to myself—my world revolving around the hospital and the patients I tried so hard to save. But even here, in the solitude of my apartment, I felt it. That subtle presence. The sensation that someone—somewhere—was watching, waiting. ______________________________________ Is there anyone??