Shadows of the night

Moon

I wish I could say the news didn’t affect me.

But the moment his voice came through the café speakers that morning, my hand slipped.

The cup shattered against the floor.

Laughter followed. Someone joked about drama. About powerful men and dramatic speeches.

I bent down to clean the mess, nodding along, pretending my ears weren’t ringing.

That voice…

I told myself it was nothing.

Lots of men sound confident when they speak into microphones. Lots of men know how to command a room.

That didn’t mean anything.

Still, it follows me home.

Even now, hours later, standing in my apartment, it feels like the sound followed me home.

I lock the door and rest my back against it, counting my breaths until my pulse slows. The room smells faintly of detergent and instant noodles.

Normal.

Safe.

Mine.

I remember that night.

Every detail.

The hotel carpet beneath my shoes.

The way the door closed too softly behind me. The expensive stillness of the room, like it was holding its breath.

I remember how quickly control slipped out of my hands.

Not violently. Not suddenly.

Just… inevitably.

I move to the couch and sit, hands clasped together. My body reacts before my thoughts do—shoulders tight, spine straight, like I’m still there.

I roll my sleeve up.

The marks are fading.

Pale now.

Almost gentle if you don’t know what caused them.

I press my thumb into one and let go.

I remember his grip.

Firm. Certain. Like hesitation wasn’t an option.

And I remember his voice.

Low. Calm. Unhurried.

The same tone I heard on the television this morning.

My breath stutters.

“No,” I whisper. “That’s not possible.”

What if it isn’t coincidence?

The thought strikes sharp enough to hurt.

I shut it down instantly.

No. I’m not important enough for that.

I stand up abruptly and go to the sink, turning the tap on too hard. The sound of running water fills the room, loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

You’re reaching, I tell myself. You’re scared. That’s all.

But when I close my eyes, the memory doesn’t fade.

I remember the way he spoke like he already knew the outcome. Like resistance was just a formality. He didn’t need to threaten me.

He didn’t need to explain himself.

I turn the tap off.

The silence rushes back in.

When I try to remember his face, there’s nothing. No eyes. No features. Just a blur where certainty should be.

It doesn’t make sense. I remember everything else so clearly.

I sink back onto the couch, pulling my knees up slightly.

Why can’t I see you?

Maybe my mind erased him on purpose.

Or maybe he never wanted to be seen.

I think about the man on the screen again—how people watched him like he belonged above them. How even the reporters sounded careful when they spoke.

Power looks different from a distance.

Up close…

It feels like being noticed.

I hug a cushion to my chest, suddenly cold.

I don’t know if the man from the news is the same man from that night.

But I know this much—

Whoever he is, he didn’t forget me.

And something tells me…

this isn’t over.

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