The Day After I Go Missing

Nothing is fine

Day 3 – Her Perspective

She wakes to the sound of knocking.

Not the polite kind—heavy, urgent thuds. When she pulls the door open, no one’s there. Just the folded notice flapping under the draft. Another warning from the landlord—final this time. Her rent’s two months overdue.

Her hands shake as she pours coffee. She used to pride herself on holding it all together; now her hands won’t even obey her.

At the bus stop, she catches her reflection in the scratched plexiglass. Her eyes look older than last week. A man across the street smokes a cigarette. He stares at her too long, and when she meets his gaze, he turns his back. That should’ve been the end of it, but she notices him on the bus later, three rows behind her.

At work, her manager finally talks to her. But it’s not small talk or jokes. It’s a clipped:

> “We need to talk about your performance.”

She nods and says she understands, even though she doesn’t. She’s not sure what she’s done wrong except exist with an empty wallet.

At lunch, her coworkers whisper again. One of them—the only one who used to be her friend—avoids her eyes. She thinks she hears her name, followed by a low, uneasy laugh.

She leaves early that day.

At home, she draws the curtains and locks the door. For the first time, she admits to herself that something feels wrong.

---

Day 4 – Her Perspective

The dreams come back. This time she remembers more. She’s running down a hallway, doors slamming one by one behind her. There’s laughter—high-pitched, cruel. She wakes to the sound of her own ragged breathing.

The mailbox has a single envelope. No return address. Inside: a torn piece of paper with three words written in black marker:

> “WE SEE YOU.”

She stares at it for a long time, telling herself it’s some dumb prank. It has to be. But her stomach churns with dread.

She calls the police non-emergency line. The dispatcher sounds bored. Without a direct threat, they can’t do anything.

She doesn’t throw the note away. She tucks it under her mattress like evidence.

That evening, the man in the car returns. Same tinted windows, same idling engine. He’s parked closer this time, directly under her window.

She watches him until it’s too dark to see.

Day 5 – Her Perspective

She loses her job. Her manager calls her into the office and hands her a final paycheck. Says “it’s not working out.” No further explanation. She stands there holding the envelope like it weighs a hundred pounds.

Walking home, she notices people glancing at her, then quickly looking away. She passes two kids on bikes; one of them points and whispers something to the other.

Her phone buzzes. Unknown number again. This time she answers. Silence. Then faint laughter. The same sound from her dreams.

She throws the phone across the room.

That night she barely eats. The walls feel closer. The air feels heavier. When she peers through the blinds, the man in the car is gone. For the first time, she wishes he wasn’t.