Ghost Signals

Maya found the cat staring at her from the kitchen counter, those amber eyes judging her as she scrolled through her ex-boyfriend's social media at 3 AM. A pathetic ritual, she knew—a zombie of a relationship she kept alive with digital breadcrumbs. Her thumb hovered over his profile one last time.

Then she saw it. A photo of her, taken through her own living room window. Posted three days ago.

Her stomach dropped. She'd felt watched for weeks—a presence at the edge of her vision, movement in the street that seemed to follow her. She'd dismissed it as paranoia, the natural scar tissue of a city that didn't sleep.

Now she understood. Someone had been inside her life without her permission.

Maya grabbed her keys and drove to the waterfront, the iPhone burning in her pocket like evidence she couldn't quite bring herself to delete. The pier was empty, black water lapping against pilings that disappeared into darkness. She stood there, letting the truth wash over her in waves.

All those late-night texts from "unknown numbers" she'd ignored. The feeling that her conversations were being rehearsed before she had them. The way her cat sometimes hissed at nothing in the corner of the room.

She wasn't crazy. She was being surveilled.

And the worst part? She'd gone back to him last month, believing his apology, believing the story about how he'd changed, how he'd realized what he'd lost. Believing that love—however damaged—was worth salvaging.

The water below looked cold, final. A place to drown the evidence of her own blindness. Instead, Maya pulled out her phone and dialed the police. Then her attorney.

The cat was waiting by the door when she returned, as if nothing had changed. As if trust hadn't become a foreign language they'd both forgotten how to speak. Maya scooped her up, burying her face in soft fur that smelled of home, of safety, of everything she hadn't lost yet.

"You and me," she whispered. "Starting now."