It was 3 a.m. when she got into a taxi after a late night at work. The streets were quiet, the city asleep. From the moment she sat down, she felt uneasy — the driver kept glancing at her through the rearview mirror, making silent eye contact that sent shivers down her spine.
When they reached her apartment building, she quickly paid, got out, and rushed inside. Her heart pounded as she climbed the stairs toward her 8th-floor flat, trying to shake off the feeling of being watched.
But then she heard it — footsteps echoing behind her. She froze. Turning her head slightly, she saw him — the taxi driver, following her up the staircase.
Her pulse spiked. She started running up the stairs, fumbling for her keys, but the footsteps grew louder and closer. Panic took over. Just as she turned around on the 7th floor, out of breath and terrified, the man reached into his pocket — and held out… her wallet.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, breathless. “You dropped this in the seat.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. The fear, the tension — all replaced by relief and embarrassment. He gave a small nod and walked back down the stairs without another word.
That night, she learned something she would never forget: sometimes, what we fear most isn’t danger — it’s our own imagination running wild in the dark.
