Fearless

AMARA’S POV

The first time I realised I was being watched, the shadows moved before I did.

At twenty-five, I had built a life that looked perfect from the outside: a steady job at a top firm, a small apartment, routines that kept everything predictable. Control had always been my comfort. But lately, that control had begun to slip.

It started with a message. My phone vibrated during a meeting that afternoon, and an unknown number flashed across the screen.

"I have been watching you."

I stared at the words for a second, causing a chill to crawl up my spine. By the time I looked again, the number was gone. I told myself it was a prank.

Still, the unease taunted me the rest of the day.

When I slipped the key to my apartment door that evening, the feeling returned. That awareness of been observed, as though someone stood just out of sight. Once, I caught my reflection in a glass window and thought I saw a figure behind me.

When I turned, there was no one there.

I blamed stress. Long hours. Too much caffeine. I told myself I was imagining things.

That night, after staying late at work, the streets were half-empty and slick with rain. A street lamp flickered overhead as I walked faster, clutching my bag close, ears straining for the slightest sound.

Then I felt it.

"Someone was watching me."

I froze and slowly turned.

Across the street stood a man in a black coat. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but his eyes caught the light, a faint, unnatural gold. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched me, and something about the intensity of his stare made my stomach twist.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Can I help you?” I asked, my voice unsteady.

He tilted his head slightly, as if memorising my face. A shiver ran down my spine, but before I could react, he was gone.

My phone buzzed, snapping me back. I flinched.

“Mom,” I answered.

“Amara! Your sister is getting married next month!” her voice cut sharply through my nerves. “You’re coming home, right?”

“Of course,” I muttered.

“And don’t come alone this time,” she added, almost stern. “Everyone will ask why you’re still single. Bring a man, pretend if you have to.”

I stared at the empty street. A stranger watching me… and now a fake boyfriend. Perfect.

I hurried to my apartment building and pressed the elevator button, tapping my fingers against my bag. The doors closed with a soft ding, and I let out a quiet sigh, trying to steady my racing thoughts. My mind kept returning to the message I’d received earlier that day from an unknown number:

"I’ve been watching you."

My stomach tightened. I tried to laugh it off as a prank, but a memory surfaced, the man at the coffee shop last week, the way his gaze lingered before he disappeared into the crowd. A chill ran through me, and I shook my head.

By the time I reached my floor, unease had settled into a dull ache. Inside my apartment, I checked the windows, drew the curtains, and tried to convince myself I was imagining it. The quiet hum of the city outside felt heavier than usual, pressing against the walls of my apartment.

After a light dinner, I opened my laptop, desperate for distraction. Hours blurred together until exhaustion won. My head dropped onto the keyboard.

Sleep pulled me under.

I was standing on a narrow street wrapped in mist. He was there again, closer this time. His eyes locked onto mine with a familiarity that made my chest tighten. I could feel the pull of his presence, almost tangible, drawing me forward.

He reached out, his hand hovering inches from mine, warm, steady. A hint of something unspoken lingered between us.

Before our fingers touched, the dream shattered.

I jolted awake, breathless, my heart racing. The room felt too quiet. I hugged my teddy, telling myself to stay awake, not to drift back into that dream. My mind raced with questions: Who was he? Why was he watching me? And what did it mean?

But exhaustion won.

As my eyes closed, I felt it again, a warm breath near my ear, a whisper

I couldn’t quite understand.

Then sleep claimed me once more.