I was on the train when a man sat across from me and stared at me. It wasn't the usual look, the kind that glides absentmindedly across strangers' faces on public transportation. No, this one was focused.
My heart started to race. I had to get away. I had to get away from that look. The train was slowing down, approaching the next station—a small, almost insignificant stop that wasn’t mine. But it didn’t matter. My instinct for self-preservation was screaming. As soon as the doors opened with the familiar hiss, I jumped to my feet, grabbed my bag, and almost ran out without looking back. I didn’t dare. I was afraid that if I turned around, I would see him following me.
I stepped onto the platform and felt the cool air on my face. The train creaked away, taking my oppressor with it. I felt a momentary relief, which was quickly replaced by a new wave of anxiety. I was now in an unfamiliar place, alone. The station was deserted, just a few peeling benches and a building with broken windows. I walked quickly down the street, moving away from the platform as if it might pull me back. My hands were shaking.
I took out my phone. I had to call my husband, Peter. I had to tell him. But what could I tell him? That some man had been looking at me strangely on the train? He would think I was paranoid. Peter was always so rational, so down to earth. His problems were related to contracts, deadlines, and investments, not crazy fears about public transportation.
Just as I was about to dial his number, the phone rang in my hand. It was him. I took a breath, trying to steady my voice.
“Hello?” I said, trying to sound normal.
There was a moment of silence, and then his voice cut through the silence, sharp and tense, like nothing I had heard in years.
“Were you on the train?!” he almost shouted, without even greeting me. There was no warmth in his voice, only an icy, panicked urgency.
“Yes,” I replied, my heart sinking. “What’s wrong?”
He shouted, his voice breaking with panic:
"Go back to the station right away, you have..."
