Chapter Seven: A Face in the Frame
344 Words
There was a photo on my desk.
I hadn’t placed it there.
It was framed in a black wooden border—simple, sleek, just like the others I had. For a second, I thought I was imagining things. I picked it up slowly, my hand trembling, my stomach already tightening in dread.
It was a picture of me.
Not a selfie. Not a photo taken with friends.
No.
This one was taken through a window. At night. I was standing in my kitchen, barefoot, pouring tea. My head was tilted slightly to the side, caught mid-thought. My lips were parted, and my robe slipped slightly off one shoulder. I looked… peaceful. Vulnerable. Exposed.
Whoever took this had been close. Very close.
A note was tucked behind the frame.
> “You’re most beautiful when you don’t know you’re being watched.”
I dropped the frame.
Glass shattered across the floor like a scream.
I didn’t move. I just stood there, heart racing, lungs forgetting how to work.
He had been in my home again.
I grabbed the pepper spray from my drawer, not because I believed it would help, but because holding it made me feel less small. I checked the door—locked. Windows—secure. I called the building manager.
Again.
She promised to check the surveillance footage, but I already knew what she would say: “There was no sign of forced entry.” There never was.
I spent the rest of the day at a café across town, eyes flicking from face to face, searching for someone who stared too long. But everyone was busy living their lives—smiling, laughing, working.
Meanwhile, I was unraveling.
That night, I went through my old journals, desperate for something—anything—that could help me understand why me? That’s when I found it.
A name.
Scrawled on the inside of a notebook I hadn’t opened in years.
"Eli."
Suddenly, the air grew thick with memories I’d buried beneath time and therapy.
A boy.
A mistake.
A promise.
And maybe… a beginning.
- Writer
