“I will,” I promised. “Everything will be fine.”

It was something I believed—or at least wanted to believe. Still, I lay awake that entire first night alone, every innocuous creak or thump sending an electric current of terror through my body. I checked the lock on the front door at least seven times and did a sweep of all the windows twice. Everything was in order, but sleep still eluded me. I rolled my bottle of Ambien between my palms, tempted to take a pill but terrified to do so. I hadn’t had one since hearing the strange voice on the Luna Listen app, hadn’t been willing to numb myself to the world when there were creeps in it who wanted to watch me sleep. Instead, I stared at the smooth ceiling of the guest room until the first rays of morning light stretched across it, at which point I finally drifted off.

My alarm sounded ninety minutes later, and I raised my head long enough to call in sick before going back to bed for the rest of the morning. Six hours later, I awoke energized and more than a little embarrassed at how frightened I’d been. Cat’s apartment was plainly harmless in the daylight, and I considered whether I should just go full vampire while Cat was away. I made up for my unproductive morning by responding to emails and planning some future Instagram content, and then I took a Reformer class and picked up a salad from Sweetgreen on my way home.

Despite the postexercise endorphins in my system, I felt a twinge of loneliness as I climbed the steps to Cat’s building. I really hated being alone. I’d been that way ever since I was a baby—my mother loves to say I only learned to crawl so I could follow my sister around. And after Maggie was promoted to her own bedroom, I used to sneak in and sleep on the floor by her bed, curled up on her pink shag rug alongside the cat. I no longer slept on the floor like someone’s pet, but I’d never gotten over my dislike for being alone.

So I was lonely without Cat around, sure, but as much as I hated to admit it, I missed Max. I missed eating home-cooked meals at his side while listening to his impressive record collection, and I missed nestling into the crook of his elbow and snacking on his brilliant concoction of Tabasco-dressed popcorn while we watched television. I missed the feel of his soft lips on mine, the way his mouth always tasted faintly of cinnamon. I missed him pressing his face into my hair and telling me I was beautiful.

But could I ever forgive him for keeping those photos a secret? How could he not have told me about them? And what kind of website had they been on? Something gross, he had said. I should have pressed him on that. When I first moved into the basement apartment, I hadn’t always remembered to draw my curtains before undressing—years of living far above the street had made me lax about such things—and what if this creep had seen? What if he had posted naked photos of me?