Manuela Tellez

The metro was packed, as always. I held my purse tight, one hand over the zipper, my body angled away from the crowd. After living in Medellín, Colombia, my whole life, I knew how to move in a packed train, how to spot a pickpocket, how to keep my guard up without looking like I was keeping my guard up.

The train lurched forward, and I adjusted my stance. Almost midnight. I should have taken a taxi from my friend's apartment in Laureles, but I’d spent too much at dinner. Besides, it was just another metro ride.

A movement behind me made my skin prickle. Someone shifting too close. I turned slightly, pretending to adjust my bag. A man, mid-30s, hoodie too big for the warm night, eyes that slid away when I met them.

Instinct tightened in my gut. Maybe nothing. Maybe something.

I let go of the overhead bar, letting the movement of the train sway me. At the next stop, I slid out of the doors just as they opened. I moved fast. If it was nothing, I’d look like someone just hurrying home. If it was something—

The doors closed behind me. I glanced at the reflection in the darkened window. He had stepped out too.

Not paranoia.

I walked briskly toward the exit, heart thudding. The station smelled like damp concrete and empanadas from the vendors outside. My eyes flicked to the taxi stand. Five seconds. That’s all I needed.

Then—change of plan. Instead of the escalator, I veered left. Service stairs. No cameras. He followed.

I ran.

Two steps at a time, lungs burning. The footsteps behind me quickened. My mind raced. If I tripped, if I slowed—

Bursting into open air, I darted between the taxis, yanked open a door.

"Go!" I gasped.

The driver hesitated, but then we were in traffic. I looked back.

The man stood at the curb. Watching.

My hands shook as I checked my bag. Wallet. Phone. Everything was there.

So why had he followed me?