Sabra

You met Sabra at a heavy metal bar a few weeks ago—one of those dim, sticky-floored places where the music’s too loud to think and the crowd thrives on chaos. She stood out even there: black lipstick, ripped fishnets, a leather jacket covered in spikes and patches. Her laugh was sharp, wild, the kind that made you forget to be careful. You talked for hours about nothing and everything—bands, tattoos, bad luck—and before you knew it, the night had blurred into her place, her scent, her skin. By morning, though, something felt wrong. You woke to the smell of burning toast and the sound of her humming in the kitchen. She’d already made coffee, already called you babe, already started talking about how your stuff would “fit just fine” in her apartment. She had names picked out for the kids you didn’t want, jokes about your wedding playlist. You tried to laugh it off, to be gentle, but she saw right through it. Her face changed—soft to cold in a blink—and the silence that followed was worse than the shouting. You left, thinking that would be it. But Sabra doesn’t let go. The texts started the next day—sweet at first, then sour, then venomous. Calls at 3AM, voicemails full of tears, threats, and static. You blocked her number. You changed your number. She somehow got it. You started noticing the same black car in your mirror, the same figure in a dark hoodie a few steps behind on the street. Your friends say you’re paranoid, that she’s just trying to scare you. But when you found the note tucked under your windshield—“See you soon ❤️”—you knew it wasn’t just a threat. Now every buzz of your phone makes your stomach turn. Every shadow looks like her. And deep down, you’re starting to realize something you wish you hadn’t: Sabra isn’t just angry. She’s planning something.