MILLIE BROWN

I stare at the clock on the wall.

The second hand crawls with agonizing slowness, and I'm sure time has never moved this slowly before. Miss Ruth's voice drones on in the background, but I've tuned her out.

I've been stuck in this stuffy, windowless detention room for an hour now, and it feels like I've aged a decade.

Thirty minutes left.

I tap my pencil against the desk, counting each second, each tick echoing in the silence like a countdown to freedom.

I pull out my phone from under my desk, sliding it just enough to read the flood of messages from my friends. They're blowing up the group chat, planning my birthday party tonight.

My eighteenth birthday, and here I was, locked away with Miss Ruth who seemed to have no idea what day it was—or simply didn't care.

*Get ready to party, girl! We've got surprises for you!* Leah's latest text makes me grin despite the situation. She's the mastermind behind most of our shenanigans, and if anyone can get me out of here, it's her.

I glance up and see Miss Ruth is engrossed in grading papers, her lips are pressed into a thin, stern line. I should have known better than to tune her out in class, but it was worth seeing Miss Ruth's eye twitch.

Twenty-five minutes.

My foot taps restlessly on the linoleum floor. I'm just about to resign myself to my fate when Miss Ruth's phone rings. She answers, her face shifting from mild annoyance to something else—concern, maybe? She listens intently, nods a few times, and then hangs up.

"You're free to go," she says abruptly, barely looking up from her desk.

I blink. "Really?"

"Yes, really. Don't make me change my mind."

I'm already grabbing my bag before she finishes her sentence. As I rush out, my phone vibrates again. A new message from Leah: *Get home NOW.* I roll my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips.

Leah must've pulled some strings. Probably called the office pretending to be my mom or something equally bold. I owe her one.

Outside, the late afternoon sun is blinding. I squint as I step onto the sidewalk, the fresh air washing away the stifling feel of that detention room.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten since lunch. There's a coffee shop down the street—my regular spot. I decide a quick detour won't hurt.

As I approach the café, I sense it—an uncomfortable prickling at the back of my neck. My eyes scan the street, and there he is. Standing across the road, half-hidden behind a lamppost, is my stalker. I call him that because he's been showing up everywhere lately. He's always watching, always just out of reach.

I keep my gaze steady, pretending I haven't noticed him. My heart hammers in my chest as I fumble with my phone, trying to angle it just right to capture him without being obvious. As I'm about to press record, someone bumps into me, hard.

My phone slips from my hand, clattering to the pavement. "Damn it," I mutter, bending to pick it up. The screen's not cracked—thank God—but the stalker's gone. I shoot a glare at the guy who bumped me, but he's already disappeared into the crowd.

Annoyed, I shove my phone back into my pocket and step into the coffee shop. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods is comforting. I order my usual—a caramel macchiato, extra shot—trying to shake off the unease creeping up my spine.

The barista, a familiar face with a nose ring and kind eyes, hands me my drink with a cheerful smile. I smile back, but it feels strained.

I head home, keeping my pace steady, my footsteps echoing in time with my heartbeat. I can feel him behind me. I don't even have to turn around to know he's there.

The same prickling sensation follows me all the way. I force myself to stay calm, trying desperately to ignore the goosebumps creeping all over my skin.

We were alone on this road, he could jump me at the next intersection and have his way with me in that alley. Maybe Leah was right, I knew nothing about him, should I call someone. Leah? No, she'd freak out and make this a bigger deal than it was. The cops? What would I say?

I reach my front door, feeling his presence like a shadow just outside my vision. For a second, I consider confronting him. But what if I'm wrong? What if it's just paranoia? That would be embarrassing

I push the thought away, my hand trembling as I unlock the door and step inside. I'm home. Safe. Yet, the silence in the house feels heavy, almost oppressive.

I should feel relief, but all I feel is an eerie chill that wraps around me like a cold blanket. Something isn't right.

I lock the door behind me, leaning my forehead against the cool wood, breathing deeply. I don't want to turn around. But I know I have to.

Surprise...........