I was on the train when a man sat across from me and stared at me. It wasn't an ordinary look, the kind that glides absentmindedly across strangers' faces on public transportation. No, this one was concentrated, predatory, as if he were measuring my every move, every flutter of my eyelashes, every breath I took. He sat erect, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on mine. Dark, expressionless eyes that seemed to pierce a hole in my soul.
At first I tried to ignore him. I stared at the book I was holding, but the words were blurring before my eyes. I could feel him. His presence was almost physical, heavy, choking the atmosphere in the compartment. The train rattled monotonously on the tracks, but for me that sound became an ominous countdown. I looked up for a second and saw him—still looking at me. His lips were pressed into a thin, straight line. He didn’t look angry, nor threatening in that obvious, blatant sense. It was worse. He was completely calm, as if he were on a mission. I was the mission.
A chill ran down my spine. Who was this man? Why was he looking at me? A thousand scenarios ran through my head, each more terrifying than the last. I looked around. There were a few other people in the compartment – an elderly woman dozing by the window, two students with their heads buried in their phones. No one noticed anything. I was alone in this invisible duel.
