TRIGGER WARNING: Stalking, suicide

I feel your breath on my nape. Hot. Raspy. Like you are standing close and I can feel your almost nearness. The one that makes me cringe. Makes me want to hide in fear, crouch under a table or run as fast as my legs can carry me, like I have been wanting to do for the last six months. Since the beginning of the year. Beginning of university. Beginning of adulthood. 

Six whole months of living with the innate fear of being followed everywhere, paranoia making me swivel around each time I heard a rickshaw whizz by, a peddler announce his wares in a corner shop near the campus, a street hawker sell street snacks. Any and every noise on the street. It meddled with my head, engulfed me in its very core, so much so that I dreaded stepping out of the house. At least you didn't know where I lived. Or so I consoled myself.

But that was yesterday. Yesterday you followed me from class to where my car was parked, silently creeping up like a thief in the night; a swift-footed ninja. Only, your face wasn't veiled, there was no black costume, and no mystery to your being. You looked like any other student. Innocent. Harmless. And like any other innocent, harmless student, you only wanted to ask me one thing. In a throaty whisper, only meant for my ears.

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The last crime against humanity

"Why are you running away from me?"

I'm running away because I'm scared. Because you watch my every move, every conversation, every interaction, whether I take the lift to my fourth floor Economics lecture or the stairs, whether I sit in the blue or the white plastic chair in the cafeteria, whether I order tea or coffee. Because you know which classes I have enrolled into this semester, just like you did last semester. And you sit outside on the steps for the duration of my classes, hoping to catch a glimpse of me when I walk out. Every single class. 

How do you think I feel every time I find you hovering over the door to my classroom? Like when you're the only passenger riding up a lift, and then it suddenly stops. And it's dark outside and everyone has gone home. You ring the emergency bell but nobody responds. And your heartbeat rushes a mile a minute. And then the lights start to flicker and dim. You scream for help, but there's no one to hear you. And then suddenly, you turn and your heart almost stops. The interior mirrors should only show you, right? But who are these other faces, other bodies...?

As soon as class is over, I dash for the exit. I take comfort in the rush of the crowd that distances me from you. I run down the stairs, don't risk taking the lift. I want to avoid you, I want you to lose me in the crowd. But you find me, always. 

Do you find it all very romantic? All very classic, chivalrous romance? The 'waiting for your lady love forever' kind of romance? Some of my friends imagine so. Some guy hopelessly in love with you is the stuff of dreams. They ask me why I resist you. They don't know how I writhe in fear every night in bed, dreading yet another nightmare, my brows slick with sweat, my forehead painted in a permanent crease. They don't know how my chest constricts when I fear having to wake up to another day of this. 

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Animality

You want to know why I run away? Because whenever I feel you near me, I remember Rida. And Tania. And Mouri. And the countless other young female students who bore the brunt of a rejection the worst way possible. A carefully aimed fling of a glass beaker of nitric acid was enough to cause permanent damage; hot lava melted their skins, eyes and noses and lips dissolving like wax down a rapidly burning candle. Some lost their vision, some their hair, some their livelihood. Their futures disappeared, their choices in life wore thin. 

I don't wish to be the next Rida, or Tania or Mouri. They survived, they fought their battles, they continued on with life with a renewed sense of purpose. But I don't possess an iota of their strength or their courage. I crumple easily, I tremble, I lose hope. I may survive, but would never know how to live. 

You see, this thing you and my friends think is love? This isn't love. Love isn't fear, love isn't anxiety, love isn't cruel. That feeling in the pit of your stomach that you are about to throw up the contents of your meal due to panic? That is not love. The feeling of entrapment after you try to escape but feel cornered? That is not love. That feeling of helplessness while being made to feel like a victim? That is not love. The disgust you feel with yourself for feeling helpless? That is not love.

I don't tell you all this today because you and I find ourselves in an empty classroom and classes have ended for the day. I waited to speak to my lecturer and when he left, I realised I was the only one in the room. Then as I pick up my bag and turn to leave, you are here. I first feel you through your breath on my nape. By now I am familiar with your nearness. 

I brace myself. I can't escape as you are blocking the door. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and steady myself. I am petrified and agitated and irate. I am also very tired. Of this farce, this walking on a tightrope of fear, of anticipating and dreading the fall. I am tired of feeling tired. 

I want to be spiteful and cruel and brutal and fierce. I have had enough. 

"Why don't you leave me alone?" I snap. "Why don't you just go away?"

You turn to me, an injured expression splayed across your face. Your eyes are limpid pools of hurt. 

"You want me to go away?" you ask, your voice low. Sad.

I look you in the eye. "Yes."

"Where do you want me to go?"

"To hell!"

You nod. Then stroll towards the window, slide it open, and climb over the ledge. 

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Of moms and balcony gardens

My eyes widen, a breath catches in my throat. "What are you doing?!!" 

"As you asked," you whisper. 

The next thing I know, a haze clouds my vision. A flock of pigeons fly through the window, their nest above the window disturbed. The wind howls and lifts the curtains long and wide. Six floors below, rickshaws tinkle their bells searching for passengers, cars and buses blare their horns; a rhythmic clanging of construction sound from the commercial tower next door. Something gets in my eye, and I blink. Once. Twice. The third time, I open my eyes wide.

You are no longer sitting on the ledge.

10 years to the day, I continue to experience guilt for something I never instigated in the first place. The guilt digs its claws into me, chews my insides and spits out the remains. It travels along the expanse of my body, lodging uncomfortably in my chest. It remains in place for days, weeks, months until I drag it by its tail and fling it across the room. It tries to creep back, slowly inching towards my feet, trying to crawl up my legs. I need to kill it altogether; remove its existence from my being. But it'll be a long time before I can do it. So it feeds on me, getting stronger, so much so that it becomes embedded in my person.

You brought me here, and I fear I will never emerge out of this.

Nabilah Khan was born and raised in Bangladesh and currently resides in Sydney, Australia. After more than a decade working in the global banking and financial services industry, she now works in the Australian public service.