Page 12 of Watching You

Iwake before my alarm.

6:42 AM.

Panic swirls through my chest until I stare up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. Four. Even. Safe. Kinsley’s still asleep, curled into a nest of blankets and chaos. Her side of the room looks like a tornado kissed a glitter factory. Mine is pristine.

I wait for my alarm to sound, then slip out of bed and begin my routine.

Toothbrush. Two minutes.

Face wash. Thirty seconds.

Moisturizer. Three pumps, not four.

Hair. Brush twelve times, six on each side.

I hum the same four bars under my breath as I move, the rhythm anchoring me.

But something’s off. It began with my waking up before the alarm.

Now, my toothbrush isn’t where I left it. It’s angled wrong in the cup, bristles touching the rim. I fix it, but the unease lingers.

I check my bag twice before leaving. Keys. Notebook. Pen. Lip balm.

The walk to class is loud, students laughing, skateboards clacking, someone blasting music from a dorm window. I count my steps to stay calm. Sixty-two to the quad. One hundred and six to the lecture hall.

Inside, the room is too bright. The chairs are mismatched. The professor is late.

I sit in the second row, center seat. I always sit in the center.

And then I feel it.

That shift.

I glance toward the door, and there he is.

Kane.

Leaning against the hallway wall, talking to someone I don’t recognize. He’s not looking at me. Not yet.

But I feel it anyway.

Like gravity tilting.

My fingers tighten around my pen. I try to count the ceiling tiles. I lose track at seven.

He turns, sees me, and smiles.

Not the kind you give a friend.

The kind you give someone you’ve already decided belongs to you.

Class ends, but I don’t move.

The professor dismisses us with a half-hearted reminder about the syllabus, and students start filing out, laughing, stretching, already making weekend plans.

I gather my things slowly. Notebook. Pen. Lip balm. I check my bag twice.

Kane’s still outside.