I wanted to call someone, anyone, but who? The landlord? The police? I didn’t know what to say. The whole thing felt like a trap I couldn’t understand.
Days passed without any sound from my apartment, but the gossip and stares didn’t stop. I stopped responding to anyone. The only conversations I had were short and strained—polite greetings from the mailman, quick exchanges at the corner store.
At work, I kept the window closed even though it was stuffy. Trying not to think about what might be happening behind the walls, or if it was all just a misunderstanding blowing up into something I couldn’t control.
Last night, I was locked in the apartment again when I heard it—just for a moment—a low, muffled noise. Not loud screaming, but something faint and unsettling. I stood frozen, listening to the silence that quickly followed.
I haven’t told anyone else about that. I don’t want to stir things up more. But now, I’m not sure what’s real anymore. I keep wondering if anyone even believes me—that I’m telling the truth when I say I live alone. There’s a sense of being watched, but from where or why, I don’t know.
