The Quiet Distance

The first time Mara noticed him, he was standing across the street from her apartment building, pretending to check his phone.

It was early October, the kind of morning where fog clung to the pavement like a held breath. Mara had paused on the steps, fumbling with her keys, when she felt it—that subtle pressure between her shoulder blades, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. She looked up.

The man wore a dark jacket and a knit cap pulled low. He stood beside a parking meter, head bent, thumb scrolling. Nothing about him was remarkable, and yet the moment their eyes met, his phone lowered just slightly. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough. A chill crept through her.

Mara told herself she was imagining things. She was tired. Overworked. Ever since moving to the city alone, her nerves had been raw, stretched thin by unfamiliar sounds and anonymous faces. She straightened her shoulders, turned away, and walked toward the subway. When she glanced back at the corner, he was gone.

The second time, he was on her train. She recognized him instantly—same jacket, same knit cap. He stood near the doors, gripping the pole, his reflection flickering in the dark glass as the train rattled underground. Mara sat two rows away, heart thudding loud in her ears. Don’t stare, she told herself. She pretended to scroll through emails, but every few seconds her eyes lifted. The man never looked directly at her. His gaze slid past her reflection, unfocused, as though she were a detail too insignificant to notice.

At the next stop, half the car emptied. Mara stayed seated. So did he.

At the stop after that, she stood abruptly and pushed toward the doors. Just before they closed, she risked a look back. He hadn’t moved. Relief washed over her, quickly followed by embarrassment. She laughed under her breath. You’re paranoid, she thought. This is what happens when you live alone and read too much true crime. Still, she walked the rest of the way to work with her keys clenched between her fingers.

By the end of the week, coincidence was no longer a comforting explanation. He appeared outside her office building at lunch, seated on a bench she could see through the café window. He stood across the street from the grocery store, examining the produce sign for far too long. Once, she glimpsed him in the reflection of a shop window behind her, close enough that she spun around … and found only a couple arguing over directions.

Each time, her certainty wavered. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was someone who looked like him. The city was full of men in dark jackets and knit caps. But the feeling never left. The sense of quiet distance narrowing.

Mara stopped taking her usual routes. She varied her schedule. She told herself she was being smart, not afraid. At night, though, fear crept in. She double-checked her locks. She left the TV on for noise. She slept lightly, waking at every sound—the hiss of pipes, the hum of traffic, the creak of her neighbor’s floorboards.

Once, at three in the morning, she thought she heard footsteps outside her door. She held her breath, heart pounding, staring at the dark outline of the peephole. Nothing happened. In the morning, she told herself she’d dreamt it.

Mara didn’t want to tell anyone. Saying it out loud would make it real, and she wasn’t ready for that. Instead, she started documenting. Dates. Times. Locations.

She wrote everything in a small notebook she carried everywhere. October 12th, 8:17 a.m.—across the street from the apartment. October 14th, 6:40 p.m.—subway platform. Patterns emerged. He appeared most often when she was alone. Never when she walked with coworkers. Never when she spoke on the phone. It was as though he knew.

One evening, as she walked home later than usual, rain slicked the sidewalks, she felt it again—the pressure, the watching. She quickened her pace. Her footsteps echoed too loudly in the narrow street. She passed a closed bakery, a darkened laundromat, her reflection flickering in their windows.

Then she saw him. He stood beneath a streetlight behind her, no phone this time, no pretense. Just watching. Panic surged. Mara turned sharply and crossed the street without looking. A horn blared as a car swerved. She didn’t stop. Her breath came in short, painful gasps as she ducked into a convenience store, the bell jangling violently as she pushed inside.

She waited by the counter, hands shaking, until the cashier gave her a wary look. When she dared to glance outside, the street was empty. She stayed in the store for twenty minutes.

That night, she went to the police. The officer listened politely as she explained, nodding, typing notes. When she finished, he folded his hands.

“Do you know his name?” he asked.

“No.”

“Has he spoken to you? Touched you? Threatened you in any way?”

“No, but—”

“Ma’am,” he said gently, “seeing someone in public places isn’t a crime. Without direct interaction, there’s not much we can do.”

He suggested self-defense classes. Awareness. Friends. Mara nodded, thanked him, and left the station. She felt foolish. And yet, the fear didn’t fade. It sharpened.

The first message arrived three days later. It slid under her apartment door sometime during the night. A single piece of folded paper. Her hands trembled as she opened it.

You’ve been doing well.

No signature. No explanation. Her stomach twisted. He had been inside the building.

The second message arrived the next night.

You changed your route today. Smart.

Mara didn’t sleep.

On the third night, she stayed awake with the lights on, sitting on her couch, a kitchen knife on the table in front of her. Every sound made her flinch. Hours dragged by.

At dawn, exhausted, she finally drifted off. She woke to a knock at her door. She froze. The knock came again, firmer this time.

“Mara?” a man’s voice called. “It’s me.”

Her heart hammered. She didn’t recognize the voice. She crept to the door and peered through the peephole. The man from the street stood there, closer than she had ever seen him. Without the cap, his hair was dark, neatly cut. His face was ordinary, calm.

“Please,” he said softly. “I need to talk to you.”

Mara’s hand hovered over the lock. Every instinct screamed no.

“Go away,” she said, her voice shaking.

He sighed. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he continued. “I’m here because you’re in danger.”

She laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound. “You think I’m going to believe that?”

“You should,” he said. “Because I’ve been watching you for a reason.”

She backed away from the door, heart racing.

“I’m calling the police,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “You already did. It didn’t help.”

“How do you—”

“You don’t have much time,” he said, his voice urgent now. “If you don’t let me in, you’re going to make a mistake.”

Something in his tone stopped her. Not menace. Fear. Against every shred of common sense, she unlocked the door.

He stepped inside and closed it behind him. Up close, he smelled faintly of rain and soap. He kept his hands visible, movements careful, deliberate.

“My name is Daniel,” he said. “I’ve been following you for six months.”

Mara flinched. “Why?”

“Because you asked me to.”

Her mind reeled. “I’ve never seen you before.”

He met her gaze steadily. “That’s not true.”

He reached into his pocket slowly and pulled out a phone. After a moment, he turned the screen toward her. It was a video. The footage showed a woman sitting across from him at a café table. The woman was Mara. Same face. Same coat she’d worn last winter. Same nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear. In the video, she leaned forward, eyes intense.

“If I start to forget,” the woman said, her voice unmistakably her own, “you have to remind me. Even if I don’t want to hear it.”

Mara staggered back, her legs weak.

“What is this?” she whispered.

Daniel swallowed. “You came to me because you were scared. Because you said something was wrong with your memory.”

He played another clip. Mara-on-screen spoke rapidly, breathless. “I erase things. Whole weeks. I don’t know why. But I know what happens when I don’t notice.”

She leaned closer to the camera.

“I hurt people.”

The phone lowered. Mara’s mind spun. “That’s impossible.”

Daniel’s expression was gentle—and terrified.

“Check your notebook,” he said.

With shaking hands, Mara grabbed it from her bag and flipped through the pages. The dates stopped abruptly. The last entry before October 12th was from six months earlier. Below it, in her own handwriting, was a message she didn’t remember writing.

If you’re reading this, he found you. That means it’s almost time.

Her breath hitched. “Time for what?”

Daniel looked toward the kitchen, where the knife still lay on the table.

“Time to stop you,” he said in a low whisper, “before you remember what you did last time.”