I ran to the grocery store at two in the morning—one of those restless nights when you realize you’re out of something essential. The store was almost empty. Just the cashier and another man.
He kept staring at me. Not quick glances—long, deliberate eye contact. Every time I moved, his eyes followed. I told myself I was tired. Overthinking. Late-night paranoia.
I paid quickly and left, relief washing over me as the doors closed behind me.
Then I heard footsteps.
I turned. It was him, smiling like we shared a secret.
“Why so fast, miss?” he called.
I didn’t answer. I walked faster. So did he.
My keys were clenched between my fingers. My car felt impossibly far away. His steps stayed close—calm, confident. Then he laughed.
Suddenly, a scream shattered the quiet.
The cashier came running out, yelling, “GET AWAY FROM HER!” She said she’d called the police and seen everything on the cameras. She told him he’d been doing this for weeks—waiting for women to leave alone.
The man panicked and ran.
The police arrived later. He wasn’t found—but he’d been reported before.
I didn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about how close I came to something terrible—and how different things would be if the cashier hadn’t paid attention.
Before I left, she hugged me.
“We look out for each other,” she said.
I still go to that store—just not that late.
And I tell every woman this:
If something feels off, it probably is.
And if you think someone else will notice—be that someone.
