I checked my apartment security app more than I care to admit, refreshing the screen even though it showed nothing but the steady green light—no alarms, no motion detected. Still, something sat wrong in my chest, a low, constant pressure I couldn’t name.
On the second night, my phone buzzed with a message from Rachel. She asked how the trip was going and told me she hoped I was getting some rest. I typed back that it was fine, busy, but manageable. I didn’t tell her about the knot in my stomach. I didn’t want to sound paranoid. I didn’t want to be the person who always expected the worst.
It wasn’t until the morning I flew home that I felt the shift.
My phone was still on airplane mode when we landed, the cabin buzzing with the usual rush to stand up and grab bags. As soon as I turned it back on, notifications flooded the screen: a missed call from an unfamiliar number, two emails from my building management, and then, tucked between them, a message from a neighbor I barely knew—someone I had nodded at in the hallway but never spoken to beyond a polite hello.
Hey, she wrote. Everything okay at your place last night? It was pretty loud.
My pulse jumped.
I opened the email from management first. It was short and formal, written in that careful tone that means they’re already annoyed but still professional. It referenced noise complaints, mentioned multiple residents had called after hours, and reminded me of the building policy regarding gatherings and quiet hours. It said further incidents could result in fines.
I read it twice, then a third time, my hands starting to shake.
I hadn’t been home. I’d been two states away, eating a sad sandwich in an airport terminal.
There was no misunderstanding here.
I didn’t answer the neighbor. Not yet. I dragged my suitcase off the plane and made my way through the terminal, the sounds of rolling wheels and overhead announcements pressing in on me. By the time I got into the cab, my jaw ached from how tightly I’d been holding it. The city slid past the window as we drove—familiar streets suddenly feeling distant, like I was returning to a place I no longer fully recognized.
When I unlocked my apartment door, the smell hit me first: alcohol and perfume and something fried—heavy and stale. Music was no longer playing, but I could feel it in the room anyway, like an echo that had soaked into the walls. My shoes stuck slightly to the floor near the entryway. There were faint scuff marks by the door—footprints that weren’t mine.
I set my bag down slowly, my eyes scanning the room. The couch cushions were rearranged, one tossed on the floor. A thin layer of glitter dusted the coffee table, catching the light in a way that made my stomach turn. Empty cups crowded the counter, some with lipstick smears that weren’t Claire’s shade, others with names written in marker. Someone had moved my plants to make space, pushing them toward the window like an afterthought.
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