She remembered the first week she moved in. A man from three doors down had knocked on her unit at dusk, holding a misdelivered Amazon box. His smile had been tight, his gaze overly focused. Before he handed it over, he asked if she was just visiting or helping out with the cleaning. The words had tumbled out casually, like assumptions tossed onto a conversational fire, waiting to see if they'd burn. She had smiled, then, too tired to correct him, too new to want trouble. She had thanked him, closed the door, and stood behind it for several minutes, gripping the cardboard box like a shield.
There had been more after that, like the HOA notice slipped under her door the day after she hosted her cousin's birthday dinner. It wasn't loud, just five friends, a Bluetooth speaker, and a lemon cake. The notice read, "We remind all residents to adhere to community noise policies. Please avoid disruptive gatherings or unregistered guests." The letter didn't mention her name. It didn't need to.
Or the woman who clutched her purse tighter when Belle walked by the mailbox in gym clothes. Or the neighbor who smiled with her mouth but locked eyes with something behind Belle, as if scanning for someone more trustworthy to hand the conversation off to.
It was all so familiar. And familiarity in this case wasn't comforting, it was exhausting.
She stood slowly and went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it again. Her appetite had vanished somewhere between the deep end and the police SUV. She grabbed her phone and unlocked it. There were no missed calls, just one text from her cousin Camille: "Hey Belle, I am almost done with the shift. Want me to pick up something?"
Belle stared at the screen, thumb hovering. For a moment, she considered not saying anything. She had kept quiet before, let it roll off her back, buried it under the ever-growing pile of "not worth the energy." But today, that pile had collapsed. Something inside her felt unsettled, like the part of her that knew how to pretend had been cracked open too wide to close.
Beck got stopped by cops at the pool. Said someone reported me for looking out of place. I'm fine, but I'm not fine. Don't bring food. Just come home.
She hit send, then dropped the phone beside the sink and leaned on the counter. Her reflection in the microwave door looked like someone else, someone older, worn.