Listen to Middle of the Night by Elley Duhe

It had been two weeks since I returned to Virginia. Two weeks, and yet, the weight of what happened in Italy still clung to me like a second skin.

I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was always watching. Every rustle of leaves, every passing car, every unfamiliar face sent a spike of panic through me. I didn't feel safe anywhere—not in my own home, not in the street, not even in my own skin.

I quit my job.

I didn't have a clear reason why at first, but deep down, I knew. I needed a clean break. A fresh start. I needed a new identity, something that would make it harder for him to find me, to track me down. Anything to throw him off, to make sure I stayed hidden from his reach.

I told my family we needed to move to another state, start over, change our identities. I could see the confusion in their eyes, hear the disbelief in their voices when they asked why, but I couldn't explain it.

"You haven't been yourself since you got back from Italy," my mom had said one evening during dinner, worry etched into her face. "Amari, what happened over there?"

How could I possibly explain it to her that what was supposed to be a simple two-week getaway, a break from everything, had turned into my worst nightmare. The kind of nightmare that clung to you even in the daylight, that had you questioning your every step, your every move.

I could feel it—the weight of his eyes on me, even when I couldn't see him. I didn't know how, but somehow, I just knew. It was like some sixth sense, a gut feeling that twisted in my stomach, telling me I was being watched. How do you tell someone that you're living in fear, but you can't pinpoint the reason why?

I wanted to tell her everything. That I wasn't okay. That I hadn't been okay since I got back from Italy. That every moment of my life had been a quiet battle to stay alive, to outrun the man who wanted me dead because he believed I was a spy.

Enzo was ruthless. He had shown me that in the worst possible way. And if I told them the truth, if I let even a whisper of it slip, they would be in danger too. They'd be caught in the crossfire of a war they had no idea was even happening. I had to protect them. I had to make sure they never crossed his path, even if it meant losing everything else.

They thought I was crazy, but I didn't care. If they thought I was losing my mind, it was a small price to pay to keep them safe.

I could still hear his voice in my head, clear as day: I'm watching your every move.

I didn't know how long I would have before he found me again. The fear, the constant vigilance—it was exhausting. But no matter how much I wanted to forget, to move on, to go back to a life that felt normal, I knew in the pit of my stomach that it wasn't over.

I told my friends just enough to satisfy their curiosity—vague details about what happened in Italy. Enough to explain my sudden return, the abruptness of it all, and the fact that I'd wiped every trace of myself from social media. I told them I needed time, space, a break from everything. But I left out the most important part—the real reason I had come back, the dark truth about Enzo, and the horrors I'd witnessed.

They didn't need to know. And honestly, it was easier this way. Let them think whatever they wanted. Let them assume I had just snapped. They'd never know the truth, and I wasn't about to open that door.

And so, they called it a "zen lifestyle," some weird spiritual shift. They didn't know the half of it. It was easier to let them believe I was just finding myself again, rather than admit that I was just trying to survive.

I rented a cottage in the woods of Virginia. It was secluded, far from civilization, tucked away in a way that made me feel a little safer, though deep down, I knew there was nowhere I could truly hide. Still, it was the only option that felt right. No neighbors, no prying eyes, no one to ask questions. Just me, the trees, and the silence.

The cottage was small but charming. Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, giving it that rustic, cozy feel. The air always smelled of pine and earth, a reminder that I was surrounded by thick forest on all sides. A small stone fireplace sat in the center of the living room, surrounded by worn leather chairs, perfect for curling up in with a book I never read. A large, soft bed in the back room—away from windows—provided little comfort when I tried to sleep. The world outside felt distant, unreachable, but the peace I longed for felt like a fragile illusion that could shatter at any moment.

There was no phone signal here, and that was exactly how I wanted it. I had smashed my phone and torn up the SIM card before I even made the move. It felt like the only way to sever the last link to my old life, the last tether that could connect me to him—just a little more distance, just a little more protection.

Hopefully, without a trace, it would be harder for Enzo to find me.

The cabin had everything I needed. A small kitchen, a rusty shower, a few books I'd never read. Everything was simple, nothing extravagant. I kept the blinds shut at all times, even in daylight. There were no neighbors for miles, no one to see if I went out for a walk—or if I stayed inside, locking every door and window to keep the world out.

The woods surrounding the cottage were dense. Tall trees seemed to close in around me, casting long shadows in the early evening. There was something unnerving about it. As if the trees themselves could hold secrets.

The cottage was supposed to feel like a sanctuary, but instead, it felt like a prison of its own, the silence pressing in on me with every passing hour. The sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional rustle of leaves became my only company. And when night fell, it was even worse. The darkness felt thicker, suffocating, as if it could swallow me whole.

No matter how much I wanted to believe I was safe here, the truth was, I had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. And the harder I tried, the more I realized—this wasn't just a place for me to heal. This was a place to wait for him to come back for me.

Days turned into weeks, and each one felt like an eternity. The haunting sense of being watched never left me, lingering like a shadow I couldn't shake. My heart never fully relaxed. My body never truly felt safe.

At night, I went to sleep with a knife under my pillow, the cold steel offering a small, twisted comfort. The darkness pressed in around me, but I couldn't let myself feel too secure. I couldn't let my guard down.

One night, a noise woke me up. My heart pounded, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A sound had pierced through the silence—a soft noise, like something brushing against the floor or someone moving carefully, trying not to be heard.

I sat up, my breath caught in my throat. The quiet in the cabin felt oppressive now, the night so still it felt suffocating. I could hear the creak of the old wood beneath my feet as I slowly climbed out of bed, every muscle tense.

The sound came again, faint, but unmistakable—footsteps. My mind raced. Was it a dream? Was I imagining it?

I grabbed the knife under my pillow, clutching it tightly in my shaking hand, the cold handle grounding me in a way nothing else could. My pulse hammered in my ears as I silently crept down the hallway, my feet making no sound on the worn wooden floors. I stayed close to the walls, trying to be as quiet as possible, my breath shallow and panicked.

I reached the kitchen doorway and froze.

There, standing at the counter, was Enzo.

He was calm, almost too calm, as he sipped from a glass of water. His back was to me, but I recognized the broad shoulders, the tailored suit even though it was casual—he had a way of always looking pristine, always in control. His dark hair was perfectly in place, his posture relaxed.

But that voice, the one that had haunted me every second since I left Italy, broke the silence.

"I never got to say goodbye, Amari."

I couldn't breathe. My heart stopped in my chest. The knife in my hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, useless.

How did he find me?