Somebody's Watching Me by Rockwell.

I always feel like somebody's watching me and I have no privacy, I always feel like somebody's watching me, tell me is it just a dream?

Wiping down the sticky coffee on a table of the cafe, I listen to the coffee stores tv talk about me on a pop gossip channel.

"Still no statement from Paris Rooney, previously known as Paris Grambs, after photos of her in recent days were leaked kissing a boy. The 18 year old dancer is in a committed and serious relationship with Tobias Hawthorne's grandson, Grayson Hawthorne." The lady on screen reads.

"In recent updates, youths on tiktok have resurfaced images from the last public outing of the couple at a Dallas Cowboys football game. In these photos, people have zoomed in and found a flashy ring on her engagement finger. So the so called 'It Couple' could've been engaged? If we're right, that would mean Paris Rooney would have cheated on her boyfriend whilst she was set to marry him. Influencers have also zoomed in on the image in which she's said to be cheating in. We can in fact confirm she's wearing the ring. So what does it mean?" The presenter continues.

"Could it be a simple misunderstanding? Or is there trouble in paradise? Well for now, all we can do is wait. Will she be wearing the ring in her next sighting? Who knows. 32 year old celebrity gossip Tiktoker Charlie Vivian has posted her opinion on the matter and gained support, with a total of 3.6 million likes. Here's the video, now I must warn you, there is some colorful language." She smiles and the screen switches to the video I've seen at least a million times.

I groan, knowing every person in this cafe is watching me to see how I react. I know they're all here for me — not to be vain, but people out of town have travelled miles to conveniently visit this cafe today. Theres literally a queue outside. I'm being recorded as I serve. I don't care though because the more business we get, the more money I get.

I try to stay unwavering as I listen to the tiktok play over the speakers.

"To me it just gives whore vibes, and I know it's not right to say these days and I swear I'm a girls girl, but something smells fishy.. if you know what I mean." She winks suggestively.

I can feel tears in my eyes. Being slut shamed for being a slut is one thing, but being slut shamed for not even doing anything is worse. I've been advised not to comment on it until it dies down.

"In this video, I'm doing a small analysis on their relationship and why I believe a huge majority of it is PR." She states, her voice as irritating as it's been every time I've watched it.

"So for this video, I'm going all the way back. I recovered some high school photos of Paris. If you'll look at this one, you'll see she was the captain of the cheer squad. Tell me that does not reek of loose legs to you, and I don't mean for high kicks."

My clutch on the table cloth tightens as I wipe down another table and collect its cups.

"Now we all know where I'm leading with this. The video. Okay we've all seen it. Guy takes her bra off. Girl enjoys it. Girl wakes up and wants people to feel bad for her, and suddenly the guys arrested. I mean this girl was literally in a gang. And we saw in that video she had a nipple piercing. Do normal girls get nipple piercings for themselves? No. But whores get them for the guys they're with. Clearly plural based off the kind of outfits she wears. Here's a few for example." She continues.

I turn the coffee machine on to drown out her talking and lean my head against the machine, with my eyes shut in frustration.

"Can we turn it off?" I ask my boss quietly. "They're paying me thousands of dollars to keep that channel on. I'll change it if you want." He offers with a sweet shrug. "Thousands? Fuck turning it off, we need that. Can I break policy though and wear my headphones?" I beg. "Of course. You know where the switch is if you need." 

So I work my entire shift with an unwavering face, music drowning all other noise. I deal with the photos and videos at all times, and the pop gossip, and the 8 hour shift.

As I'm locking up on my own at night I get a call from Grayson. I don't hesitate to pick up.

"Hey." I reply flatly, not even attempting to hide how worn out I am. "Hey P, how you doing?" He asks with sympathy.

"All good. You?" I reply briefly, sweeping up after placing my phone on the counter on speaker. "Yeah, good." He answers.

"I saw some videos of you today. At work?" Grayson brings up. "Oh yeah?" I reply.

"Looked pretty packed in there. You looked a little mad. Want to talk about it?" He offers gently.

"Honestly no. I just want to finish closing up in here and head home." I reply. "As long as you're doing alright?" He asks. "I'll survive." I shrug.

"You always do." Grayson hums sadly.

We say our goodbyes and I finish sweeping up. I carry the trash out and dump it in the can. I finish wiping all the counters clean and replenishing the jars of coffee beans. I dry the last of the dishes and put them away.

Finally once I've walked back to the kitchens, I tear my apron over my head and toss it on a hook. Then something on a shelf draws my attention.

A brick that had been launched through the window mere months ago. I approach it with curiosity and pick it up, balancing it in my hand and inspecting.

I never suspected malicious intent, assuming it was some drunk assholes. But now as I find myself looking closer my thoughts are starting to warp.

There's something on this brick. Something slightly shiny.

I draw my hands close to examine it. It's only on one side of the brick, it's hard to see, it's familiar.

An idea dawns on my mind and I find myself racing into the bathroom with the brick in hand. If it's invisible ink like I'm certain it is, the black light we use in the bathrooms to clean will be able to show me.

So I flip the black lights on and the main building lights off. The bright pink glow on the brick is clear as day. 

But it's not words. Or even numbers. It's a QR code.

Furrowing my brows I don't hesitate to withdraw my phone from my back pocket, opening the camera and scanning it.

My phone screen starts loading and takes its time spinning that same cog over and over until my eyes burn.

"Come on.." I growl impatiently. 

Finally it directs me to an unsecured notes website. 

For my Sweetheart. 

My heart stops. It's now abundantly clear it was not a drunk asshole. What follows the terrifying message is a list.

Operation Watching Paris.

I don't want to hurt you. I hope that's clear. I want you to understand my love for you. I want you to come back to me. I want you to regret what you drove me to. I didn't want to shoot you. I really didn't. I just wanted you to come back to me.

My hands are shaking. It's not him. It's a prank. I know it isn't him. It can't be.

Does he know? The boy you pretend to love. Does he know the way I used to touch you. The way I used to own you. The way my fingers felt around your breasts? The way I kissed you?

It can't be. He only touched my boobs twice. I know that as a fact because it was two of my biggest regrets.

I'm glad you figured this out. I've been waiting for you to find this. Now that you've opened this file, I will be alerted, and that's where this will begin.

My whole body tenses and I feel a cold sweat drip down my forehead.

If you tell anyone from this point onwards. I will kill you.

I subconsciously look around this tight bathroom, suddenly getting so much tighter.

How would I even know? You may ask.

I turn all the lights back on to eliminate the majority of my fears. With the lights on I feel a little safer, having the knowledge that nobody is waiting in the corners to strike. I exit the bathroom and keep reading.

I'm always listening. I'm always watching. On the next page, you'll find excerpts of your recent conversations, along with photos of you.

Anxiously I tap onto the next page. Voice recordings of random conversations with my friends. Theres got to be at least a hundred. I let the tears fogging my eyes slip out now when I realize whoever this sick fucker is has been listening to me for months.

After all the voice recordings, are hundreds of photos.

Photos of me taken outside windows. Some even inside. Photos around school. Photos in the streets. Photos of me at work. Photos of me at parties. Photos of Grayson and I over Winter break. Photos of me showering. Photos of me naked, taken from outside my second story windows. Photos of me as recent as this morning. And most hauntingly, a photo currently loading as it uploads.

Me. Right now. A photo of me taken right outside the window with tears streaming down my cheeks.

I want to go outside. I want to confront this person head on and kill them. But my feet don't move. I just stare blankly at the windows, desperate for someone to pinch me and wake me from the horrifying nightmare.

The next page is one final paragraph.

I'm always watching, Sweetheart. Always listening. So if you tell even one person what's happening, I'll gut you from the inside out. I'll end you.

Love, Danny.

I crash the bathroom door open again, partially to hide, and partially to throw up over the toilet.

This is real. He's back. And he's going to kill me. Whether now, or later, I'm going to die. He's always watching and listening. 

It's through my phone. It has to be. That's how he's listening. 

In a manic state, I book an uber in an instant and then proceed to stuff my phone down the toilet bowl. I flush it with all my chunky vomit until it glitches and eventually powers down. 

For extra measures, I pull it out of the toilet and stomp on it until it's utterly crunched. I place it in the huge trash can after about 3 minutes of waiting in the bathroom to ensure when I leave my uber is definitely here.

I grab the door keys, racing through the shop, locking the door in record time and practically diving into the uber waiting outside.

On the drive home, I don't speak. I don't say a thing until I'm safely home and in my bed, hiding under the blankets. I don't sleep, I just stay achingly still the whole night.

(a/n. Hey guys, I just wanted to say thank you so much for 150k reads, this is honestly so unbelievable to me. I know this chapter isn't a particularly good one to post in honour of 150k reads because this is just a short one, but it was planned to be next and I didn't want to change my update schedule. I'm considering posting a Grayson x Paris oneshot on my Hawthorne oneshot book, would anybody want that? If so pls pls pls give me ideas of random scenes you might want to see??)