Periphery

Fear lives just outside the frame

The face appears in three places.

First glimpse: subway platform, half-turned profile studying her through the crowd.

Same profile at the coffee shop—turning away the instant she looks.

Then the street corner—closer this time, lurking in her peripheral vision before vanishing among strangers scrolling phones.

She runs.

At home, she deadbolts the door. Checks the windows. Draws the blinds.

Safe.

She opens her laptop, seeking digital noise to quiet her nerves. Facebook. Instagram. The usual distractions.

Then she sees it.

Her own photos. Dozens of them.

He's in every single one.

In the background. Half-turned. Watching.

Last week’s coffee shop selfie—his profile reflected in the window behind her shoulder.

Yesterday’s park photo—by the bench. Watching.

Italian restaurant—at the bar. Face slightly turned.

Every photo. Every memory.

Watching from the periphery.

The laptop screen flickers.

A new image loads in her timeline. Posted 8 seconds ago.

Her living room. Taken from outside her window.

She’s in the frame, staring at her laptop screen, bathed in blue light.

And behind her, reaching for her neck—

She doesn’t turn around.

—Sal