A boy.
A man.
His pants are dark gray and he’s wearing a hoodie, and he moves with grace. He slides among the shadows with ease, as though he belongs here, as though Whitley is his home too, even though I don’t know him.
“Hello,” I call out to him.
He stops moving, freezing in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn his head.
Something about that puts me on edge and I tense, because what if he’s not supposed to be here?
“Hello?” I repeat uneasily, and chills run up my spine, goose-bumps forming on my arms once again.
I back away, first one step, then another.
I blink,
And he’s gone.
I stare at the empty space, and shake my head, blinking hard.
He’s still gone.
He must’ve slipped between the buildings, but why?
I hurry back to my room, too nervous to find out.
I’m still unsettled as I wash my face, so when I’m finished, I poke my head out into the hall. There’s nothing there.
With a sigh, I lock my bedroom door and I’m chilled from the wet English air. Glancing at the clock, I find it’s only six thirty. I can rest for a few minutes more, and I’m thankful for that.
Because clearly, jet lag has made me its bitch.
I close my eyes.
It all whirls around.
I stand in the clouds and spread my arms and spinandspinandspin.
No one can touch me here.
It’s not real here, but it is there.
Down there, it’s cold and wet.
It’s uncomfortable there, silent and awkward and rigid.
The eyes are the wor
st, each of them turned toward me… watching me, waiting for something. For what?
My skin crawls and I scratch it til it bleeds because I’d rather not have it than let it crawl away.
They can’t get to me.
I won’t let them.
I don’t know them.