Parallax of the Watcher

CHAPTER 1 — Isha’s POV: The Feeling That Doesn’t Leave

The morning light slips through the torn edge of the curtain and lands directly on my face, forcing its way into my sleep like it belongs here more than I do.

I frown slightly, eyes still closed, trying to hold onto the last few seconds of silence before the day begins.

The alarm suddenly rings out, loud and persistent, breaking through everything, and I let out a quiet breath of irritation as I turn to shut it off.

My hand misses the phone and hits my notebook instead, sending it slipping off the bed as it falls open on the floor, its pages spreading out carelessly.

I slowly push myself up, brushing my hair back, my gaze settling on the scattered pages for a moment.

There’s no surprise in my expression, no real frustration either, just a quiet acceptance like this is exactly how things are supposed to happen.

I lean down, picking up the notebook carefully, my fingers running along the edges as if I’m making sure it’s still there, still mine, still something that listens without questioning.

“Of course,” I murmur under my breath, my voice low and dry as I close it and place it back on the bed.

I get ready without thinking, every movement automatic, practiced enough that I don’t need to focus. I tie my hair, pick up my bag, check my files, and move through the small space of the house like I’ve memorized every inch of it, which I have.

Nothing changes here, not the walls, not the air, not the silence that lingers even when I’m moving through it. The only thing that shifts is me, and even that feels temporary.

When I step into the balcony, something inside me eases just slightly. The air outside isn’t fresh, not really, but it feels less suffocating than inside.

I walk forward and rest my hands on the railing, letting my shoulders drop just a little as I close my eyes for a moment.

For those few seconds, I let myself exist without thinking about anything else, without remembering anything I don’t want to remember.

And then it comes again.

That feeling.

It isn’t sudden, and it isn’t new. It’s familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense, like something that has been there long enough to become part of my routine.

My fingers tighten slightly on the railing as my eyes open slowly, but this time I don’t turn immediately. I stay still, my breathing steady, my thoughts shifting in a direction I didn’t expect.

What if I don’t look?

The idea lingers longer than it should. If someone is watching me, if that’s what this is, then why don’t I feel afraid?

There’s no panic, no instinct telling me to move, no urgency at all. There’s just awareness, quiet and constant, like a presence that doesn’t need to prove itself to exist.

I let out a slow breath and finally turn my head, my gaze scanning the street with quiet focus. Everything looks normal.

People passing by, a bike moving down the road, a woman adjusting her bag as she walks. Nothing stands out, nothing feels wrong, and yet the feeling doesn’t leave.

My eyes shift upward, stopping at the apartment across from my house. It stands there like it always does, distant and silent, its many balconies stacked one above the other, each one hiding lives I know nothing about.

If someone is watching me, they’re there. Somewhere behind those walls, behind those railings, behind that distance that keeps everything just out of reach.

I narrow my eyes slightly, stepping a little closer to the railing as I try to focus, searching for something, anything that might give it away.

A shadow, a movement, even the smallest mistake would be enough. But there’s nothing. Not a single sign, not a single indication that what I’m feeling is real.

“Stupid,” I mutter under my breath, a hint of irritation slipping through as I straighten up.

It’s not the feeling that bothers me. It’s the fact that I can’t prove it. I don’t like things I can’t understand, things I can’t control, things that exist without explanation.

With a small shake of my head, I step back and turn toward the door, pushing it open as I walk inside. The varanda disappears behind me as I close the door, the sound clicking softly into place.

I take a few steps forward, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, ready to leave, ready to move on with the day like nothing happened.

But I pause for just a second, my body going still without a reason I can explain.

Because it’s still there.

Not outside where I can see it, not in a place I can point to, but somewhere close enough that I can’t ignore it.

I don’t turn back this time. I don’t check again. Instead, I let out a quiet breath, pushing the thought away as I walk toward the door and step out of the house, locking it behind me before heading down the street.

Everything around me moves like it always does, normal, predictable, unchanged.

But the feeling follows.

Not heavy, not threatening, not even loud.

Just constant.

And for some reason I don’t fully understand, I don’t want it to disappear.

The office doors slide open and I step inside, my grip tightening slightly around my bag as the noise hits me all at once. Conversations overlap, keyboards click endlessly, and somewhere in between all of it, I try to settle into something normal. It should feel routine. It always does. But today, something stays with me, quiet and constant, like it refuses to be left behind.

AASHI: (walking beside me, glancing at my face) “You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

I don’t look at her immediately. I pull my chair back, place my bag down, and sit, opening my file as if that answers everything.

ISHA: (calm, dismissive) “I slept.”

AASHI: (leaning on the desk, narrowing her eyes slightly) “That’s not what I asked.”

I pause for a second, my fingers resting on the edge of the page before I flip it.

ISHA: (dry tone) “That’s the only answer you’re getting.”

She exhales through her nose, half-annoyed, half-used to this.

AASHI: (muttering) “One day you’ll talk properly.”

ISHA: (without looking up) “That day is not today.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t push further, moving back to her desk. The moment she leaves, the silence around me feels louder than the noise. My eyes scan the file, but the words don’t settle. Something else pulls at my attention again.

That same feeling.

It shouldn’t be here.

My fingers tighten slightly around the pen as I glance up, casually, carefully, letting my eyes move across the room without making it obvious. People are busy, focused on their own work, nothing unusual, nothing out of place.

And yet—

It’s still there.

Watching.

Not from a direction I can point at. Not from a face I can find. Just… present.

I straighten slightly in my chair, forcing my focus back down.

ISHA: (under my breath, almost annoyed) “This is getting ridiculous.”

The meeting room feels colder than usual.

I take my seat, placing my file on the table as Mr. Mehta stands at the front, already going through the slides. Aashi sits beside me, nudging my arm lightly.

AASHI: (whispering) “At least pretend to look alive.”

ISHA: (low voice) “I am alive. That’s enough.”

She rolls her eyes, but a faint smile appears.

The meeting starts. Numbers, projections, strategies—it all moves in a steady flow, something I usually handle without effort. I listen, respond when needed, explain my part clearly.

Control. Structure. Predictable.

Until—

MR. MEHTA: (firm tone) “Isha, your projection assumes stability. What if something disrupts the flow?”

My eyes lift to meet his.

For a second—

everything goes still.

That feeling again.

Closer this time.

Sharper.

Not louder, not stronger—

just closer.

My grip on the pen tightens, but my voice doesn’t change.

ISHA: (steady, controlled) “Even with disruption, the core outcome remains the same. I’ve already accounted for the variables.”

He studies me, then nods once.

MR. MEHTA: “Make sure you’re right.”

ISHA: (without hesitation) “I am.”

But as I say it—

something inside me isn’t as certain.

The meeting ends, chairs scraping lightly against the floor as people stand. I don’t wait. I gather my file and walk out first, needing space before the feeling gets any harder to ignore.

AASHI: (catching up quickly) “Hey—what’s wrong with you today?”

ISHA: (walking ahead, tone flat) “Nothing.”

AASHI: (steps in front of me, stopping me) “Don’t do that. I can tell.”

I meet her eyes, my expression steady, unreadable.

ISHA: (quiet, firm) “Then stop trying to.”

There’s a brief silence between us. She searches my face, like she’s trying to find something I’m not showing.

AASHI: (softer now) “You don’t have to handle everything alone.”

That line.

It lands somewhere deeper than I want it to.

My jaw tightens slightly.

ISHA: (controlled, distant) “I’m not handling anything. There’s nothing to handle.”

I step around her before she can respond and walk away. I don’t look back.

Because if I do—

I might have to explain something I don’t even understand.

Evening comes quietly.

By the time I reach home, the sky has dimmed, the street softer, slower. I unlock the door and step inside, the silence greeting me instantly. It’s familiar. Predictable.

Safe.

Or at least, it should be.

I drop my bag on the chair and walk straight to the varanda without thinking, like something is pulling me there again.

The door opens.

The air shifts.

I step forward, my hands resting on the railing as my eyes lift automatically—

to the apartment.

I don’t know why I keep looking there.

But I do.

This time, I don’t rush it.

I let my gaze stay.

Searching.