I was sprawled on the worn-out couch in the living room of my small apartment late on a Sunday afternoon.
The hum of the city outside was faint, muffled by the heavy curtains I rarely bother to open.
My eyes were half-closed, pretending to sleep—not because I wanted to nap, but because I needed to watch her without being noticed.
She moved around the kitchen quietly, her footsteps light and careful.
I had been suspicious of her for weeks—my maid, someone I barely knew but whose presence filled the space with an unsettling tension.
I was determined to catch her in some act that would confirm my assumptions about her being like everyone else—undependable or indifferent.
But what I saw instead made me pause and question everything I thought I understood about people.
Something felt off in the way I was waiting, too tense in my half-slumber.
It wasn’t just mistrust—it was a mix of guilt and frustration that gnawed at me.
I wasn’t sure why I needed her to fail, why I felt threatened by her quiet competence and the way she talked to me only when necessary, always polite but distant.
