The last six months have been, in a word, hell.

Not the glamorous kind of hell, either. Not fire and brimstone and men in tailored suits offering deals you probably shouldn't take. No—this is the kind of hell that drips in slow leaks from the ceiling at 3 a.m., the kind that builds up like mildew in the grout, like static in your chest. The petty kind. The personal kind. The targeted kind.

You didn't walk under a ladder. You don't remember breaking a mirror. Black cats cross your path all the time, and you've always considered it a kind of blessing. So it must be something deeper. Something cosmic. The universe has beef with you. And it's making sure you know it.

It started with your favorite sock. Not the pair—just the one.

It vanished. Poof. Gone. No trace, no laundry machine sacrifice, no secret goodbye note. Just missing. And you were willing to accept that. Socks are fickle creatures. They flee.

But then your leftovers started disappearing. First it was the Thai takeout, which you had been looking forward to all day. Then it was the chicken Alfredo from Tuesday night. Even your emergency Kraft mac vanished—and nobody touches that unless they're truly unhinged.

Your welcome mat? Keeps ending up across the hallway. Not turned around. Not folded. Just... relocated. Like it's trying to escape something. Like it's developed opinions.

And then there's her.

3B.

Her name is... something that starts with an "M." You're 73% sure it's Melanie. You know this because you once heard the building manager shout it up the stairwell, followed by a huff and the phrase, "Again with the salt circles, Melanie?"

She's quiet, but not in a cute, bookish way. No—she's the kind of quiet that feels loud. The kind that makes your skin itch. She watches you like a deer watches a hunter—wide-eyed, waiting for the shot.

Some days, you catch her just standing in the hallway. No phone. No groceries. Just standing there like she forgot where she was going. And the second you so much as look in her direction, she startles like you threw something and bolts—barefoot—into her apartment.

It's been months of this.

You don't know what she wants. You don't ask.

You have your own problems.

Tonight, for example, has chewed you up and spat you out like a wad of dollar store gum.

Your boss—who has the emotional range of a microwaved sponge—dumped an entire client file on your desk with the kind of forced smile that says, I know this is unethical, but I also know you won't quit. No extra pay, no thanks, just "have this done before Monday" like your blood pressure isn't already writing its own suicide note.

So you come home.

You kick off your shoes, forget to lock the door. Drink the cold coffee you left out this morning—bitterness and regret, the two flavors of adulthood. Lukewarm shower. Put on an old hoodie that smells like when things used to make sense.

Then you collapse onto the couch and let Desperate Housewives play until the world stops spinning. Something about the absurdity of suburban drama calms your neurons. You don't even remember falling asleep.

But you sure as hell remember waking up.

3:07 a.m. The room is dark except for the soft flicker of the television, casting long shadows across your walls. You're vaguely aware that your neck hurts. That you fell asleep in a weird position. That your mouth tastes like something died in it.

And then—

You feel it.

Breath.

Not yours.

Slow. Measured. *Too close.

You open your eyes.

There she is.

*Melanie. Or Marissa. Or Melinda. Or whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is.

She's kneeling over you. On your couch. In your apartment.

You blink once. Twice.

She doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just stares.

Her eyes are *too wide. Like she's been crying for hours but forgot how to stop. Her hair is wild, unbrushed. One of her sleeves is torn. And her knees? Bloody. You don't know if that's the scariest part or just the detail your brain latches onto so you don't start screaming.

Your mouth opens. No words come out.

She leans a fraction closer, just enough that you catch the scent of something sharp—sweat, sage, and metal.

Then, in the smallest, most cheerful whisper:

*"Hi!"

Like this is normal. Like you invited her over for tea and tarot cards and forgot about it.