There is a difference between being alone and feeling alone. I learned that tonight. The hard way.
For the past three months, my life has become a predictable cycle of exhaustion.
Wake up.
Fight traffic.
Work.
Fight more traffic.
Get home late.
Repeat.
Sometimes I wonder if adulthood is just paying bills while sitting in increasingly worse traffic.
I work in Victoria Island and I live on the mainland. This means every weekday feels like a long-distance relationship with my own bed.
By the time I got off the bus tonight, it was already after 10 p.m.
My shoulders hurt.
My feet hurt.
My brain hurt.
Even my eyelashes felt tired.
All I wanted was food, a shower, and unconsciousness. Nothing else.
The road leading to my estate offers two choices. Every resident knows them.
The first route is longer, well-lit, busy, and safer. There are roadside vendors, small shops, security guards, and people moving around. The second route is shorter, much shorter. A narrow stretch of road lined by unfinished buildings and empty plots. No streetlights, no shops, and no witnesses.
During the day, it isn’t particularly frightening. At night, it feels like the opening scene of a crime documentary. Usually, I take the longer route always, no exceptions. At least, that was the plan. Until exhaustion started negotiating with common sense.
“You’re tired.”
“It’s only a few minutes.”
“You’ve walked there before.”
“Nothing will happen.”
That last sentence should have been my warning. Nothing good ever follows the words:
“Nothing will happen.”
I stood at the junction for nearly two minutes debating with myself. The longer route stretched ahead, bright, safe, and sensibly boring.
The shortcut waited in darkness, quieter, faster, and tempting. Unfortunately, tired people make stupid decisions.
I chose the shortcut.
The first minute was fine. The second minute was fine. The third minute was when I started regretting everything. I adjusted my handbag and increased my pace.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps behind me. Not close, not far, just there. My stomach tightened instantly. I kept walking and the footsteps continued. I walked faster and the footsteps seemed faster too.
I told myself not to panic. People use roads, people walk, not every stranger is dangerous, not every shadow is a threat, and not every sound means something.
Unfortunately, fear rarely listens to logic.
I looked over my shoulder.
Nothing.
Or at least nothing I could clearly see.
Just darkness.
Shapes.
Movement.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
My heartbeat started accelerating but kept moving.
Faster now.
The footsteps continued, still behind me, and still matching me. By this point, every crime story I had ever heard was replaying inside my head. Every cautionary tale from social media. Every terrible headline.
I was no longer walking. I was almost speed-walking. The estate gate was not far now.
Just a little further.
Just a little more.
Then I saw them.
Four young men standing ahead near the side of the road, talking and laughing. Or maybe not. I honestly couldn’t tell. All I knew was that seeing four unfamiliar men at that hour did not improve my mood. Not even slightly.
For a brief moment, I considered turning back. Then I remembered the footsteps behind me.
Wonderful.
Danger in front.
Possible danger behind.
My options were becoming increasingly creative.
I straightened my shoulders, adjusted my expression and continued forward. The secret to walking past people when you’re terrified is pretending you’re not terrified.
So I acted.
I looked ahead, kept my pace steady, and tried to appear confident, normal and unbothered.
I passed them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Nobody spoke and nobody moved. I kept walking. The estate gate was visible now. Just a short distance away.
Relief flooded through me.
I had done it.
I was safe.
I was…
A hand grabbed me violently and suddenly from behind. My scream came before my thoughts. Another hand grabbed my arm and someone pulled hard. The world exploded into panic.
My bag fell. I kicked, twisted, fought, and screamed again. The men were shouting, laughing, swearing, and pulling me away from the road, away from the estate, away from the lights, and toward the darkness.
Pure terror does strange things to your mind.
Time stopped making sense.
Everything became fragmented.
Voices.
Hands.
Fear.
The certainty that this was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. The certainty that nobody was coming. The certainty that this was how terrible stories begin. I screamed until my throat burned.
And then, suddenly…
Chaos.
A blur appeared from nowhere. A shadow, fast, violent, and determined. One second the men were dragging me. The next second someone crashed into them.
Punches.
Shouting.
Bodies stumbling.
Confusion.
Everything happened too quickly for me to understand. The stranger shoved one of the men backward. Then another. Then yelled something. A command, sharp, and urgent.
“Run!”
I froze for half a second, and then survival took over. I ran faster than I have ever run in my life towards the estate gate, towards the lights and towards safety.
My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I kept running. Then curiosity betrayed me, I looked back, just once, just one glance, and that was when I saw his face.
The shadow.
The stranger.
The man fighting for me.
The man I had spent weeks noticing.
The man I had convinced myself was watching me.
The man I had seen near bus stops, near my route home, and near my estate.
He was always distant, always present, and always making me uncomfortable.
I had built entire theories about him, convinced myself he was following me, convinced myself he was dangerous, convinced myself he was the threat, and there he was. Standing between me and the real danger.
He was fighting, bleeding, and buying me time. I don’t know his name. I don’t know why he was there. I don’t know why he seemed to appear everywhere.
Maybe he really had been watching me.
Maybe he had noticed my routine.
I honestly don’t know.
What I do know is this: Tonight, I was certain somebody was watching me. I just had the wrong person.
– Nancy