Before I knock

I don’t know why I’m here. I’m standing in front of a door I don’t recognise, in a building that feels unfamiliar in that hollow, dreamlike way — as if it’s been assembled purely for this moment and will cease to exist the second I leave. There’s no memory of arriving. No clear reason for being here. Just a quiet, insistent pull — persuasive in that unnerving way that makes you feel like the decision was yours all along — that has placed me exactly where I’m not sure I should be. My hand hesitates before knocking, like it’s waiting for permission my mind hasn’t granted. When I finally do, the sound feels too loud, too final. Three knocks. Each one lands heavier than the last, echoing faintly in the corridor behind me, as though I’ve just alerted something I didn’t mean to wake. Footsteps approach from the other side — measured, unhurried. I feel it then, that flicker of doubt. A chance to leave. To turn around and pretend none of this ever happened. A perfectly reasonable exit. A sensible one, even. The kind of decision a well-adjusted person might make without hesitation. But I stay. The door opens. The man standing there doesn’t alarm me. Not immediately. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, though I can’t place it — like a face glimpsed in passing, drifting loose without a story. His expression is open, warm even. Kind eyes. The sort of presence that doesn’t set off alarms, which in itself should probably be the alarm. “You made it,” he says, smiling, as though this was always expected. I don’t question it. “Come on in.” And, without thinking too hard about it — without thinking properly at all — I step inside. The flat is immaculate in a way that feels unnatural. Not just clean, but controlled. Every surface gleams with intention. There are no stray objects, no signs of interruption, no clutter that suggests life has ever spilled out and been left unattended. It’s the kind of space where everything has its place — and nothing is allowed to exist outside of it. It makes me feel slightly out of place, like I’ve brought something messy in with me by merely existing. You can tell a lot about a person from how they live. This man feels precise. Ordered. Someone who prefers things contained, predictable. There’s no softness here, no chaos. No evidence of the kind of life I recognise. “Glass of vino?” he asks, already reaching for a bottle. There’s a moment — brief, but present — where I could say no. Where I could assert something small, a boundary so minor it wouldn’t even register as resistance. A quiet little “no thanks” that might ripple outwards and change the entire trajectory of the evening. Instead, I smile. “Oh, go on then… you’ve twisted my arm.” He hasn’t. Not even close. The wine pours with a hollow glug, glug, glug, the sound bouncing off the bare, echoing space. It feels louder than it should, no soft edges, only emptiness. I take the glass, sip. It’s bitter, but not unpleasant. Familiar. Liquid submission, inhibitions dissolved. A softened no, slipping into yes. I settle onto the sofa beside him, aware — distantly — of the absurdity of it. A married woman, in a stranger’s flat, accepting wine like this is a perfectly reasonable situation to find herself in. I should be asking questions. I don’t. Because this is what I do. I accept the situation as it presents itself. I let it unfold, trusting — always trusting — that nothing truly bad will happen. That people are, at their core, decent. That I can navigate my way through whatever this is without it turning into something else. That belief has cost me before. He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel his presence without it being overt. We talk, lightly at first. Nothing of substance. The kind of conversation that fills space rather than creates connection. I respond easily, slipping into the rhythm of it, playing my part without questioning the script. Then the shifts begin — small, almost imperceptible. He moves closer. Just slightly. Enough that our knees brush if either of us shifts too much. His hand lifts, casually, and he reaches towards my face. A loose strand of hair has fallen. He tucks it behind my ear, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. It’s nothing. It’s exactly how it starts. Something tightens in my chest — not panic, not yet. Just recognition. A quiet, unwelcomed deja vu settling in my bones. I’ve felt this before. I think of the neighbour who once lived across the street. Older than me by a fair stretch, but not in a way that initially felt threatening. He seemed lonely. That’s how I framed it, anyway. Which, in hindsight, says far more about me than it ever did about him. We’d chat in passing, small talk stretching into longer conversations. He had a daughter who played with Phoebe, and that gave it a sense of normality — of safety. A shared, harmless connection. At the time, I was lonely too. That part matters more than I gave it credit for. We built something that felt like familiarity. Easy conversation. Friendly exchanges. The kind of rapport that sneaks up on you, creeping over you like a second skin. Looking back, I can see the shifts — the way he lingered a little too long, stood a little too close. But at the time, I didn’t see anything. Or maybe I chose not to. Until the day it changed. There was no slow build. No gentle transition. One moment we were talking, in the kitchen, and the next I was being pushed back against the wall, his body too close, his face moving towards mine with an unnerving assurance that made my stomach drop. It was so sudden, so completely out of step with everything I thought I understood, that my body reacted before my mind caught up. “NO.” The word came out sharp, loud, instinctive. My hands pushed against him, creating space, and then I was gone — back across the street, back inside my house, the door slammed shut behind me like it could seal the moment away. Like wood and glass might hold back something that had already crossed the line. But it didn’t end there. It never does. The messages started. Texts. Calls. Voicemails. Persistent, invasive. Each one a reminder that I had somehow become part of something I never agreed to. At night, I’d sit in the dark, curtains drawn tight, pretending I wasn’t home. Holding myself still, as if any sign of life might invite it back. I remember thinking: how did I allow this to happen? Later, someone told me about him. Warned me. Said his car had once been covered in silly string, a single word scrawled across it in accusation. Paedo. I remember the cold that followed that. The way everything I thought I knew rearranged itself into something darker, something far more dangerous. And I had been standing right there, smiling, chatting, trusting. The memory shifts again. A different man, this time — older, polished in a way that felt deliberate. A photographer. He approached me with confidence, telling me I had “something”. Something special. Something marketable. Something that could be shaped into opportunity. At that point in my life, that was enough. I needed money. Needed direction. Needed to feel like I was worth noticing. Not just seen, but chosen. So I said yes. It started innocently. Photos in the park, soft light, casual poses. He kept it light, complimentary. “These are lovely,” he’d say, showing me the images like proof that I was right to trust him. “We’ll get some printed for your mum.” That should have been the moment something felt off — the intimacy of that suggestion, the subtle way it blurred professional and personal. But it didn’t. Because he was kind. Patient. Easy. We built a rapport. Coffee after shoots. Easy conversation. A slow, deliberate sense of trust that felt earned. Nothing rushed, nothing overt. Just a gentle layering of comfort, one harmless interaction at a time. And then — gradually — he began to push. A little more skin. A slightly different angle. A suggestion framed as opportunity. “It’s tasteful.” “It’s artistic.” “You’ve got the look for it.” Always said gently. Always with a smile. Always leaving just enough room for me to believe I was still in control. Each step small enough to justify. Easy enough to agree to. Each “yes” barely louder than the last — until they started stacking up into something I didn’t fully recognise as me. Until I found myself further along than I ever intended to go, without remembering exactly when I crossed the line. I didn’t feel comfortable. But I didn’t say no. Not clearly. Not firmly. Not in a way that stopped anything. His house was nothing like I expected. The smell hit first — sharp, sour, unmistakable. Cat piss and something older, something rotting beneath it. The kind of smell that crawls into your clothes and grabs you by the throat. The place was a mess of rot and ruin. Rubbish lay scattered like spilled guts. Surfaces oozed a thin, greasy film of neglect. As if the apartment itself was exhaling decay, breathing it into every corner, daring me to stay. I remember thinking, very clearly — I shouldn’t be here. And still, I stayed. “Make yourself at home,” he said, clearing a space on the sofa with a sweep of his hand. I sat. Because I always do. Half-buried on the coffee table, a yellowed, slick partial denture grinned mockingly, lingering like a porcelain warning whispered to ears that refused to listen. “A glass of wine,” he offered. Of course. I took it. After that, things blur. Not completely gone — just fragmented. Disconnected pieces that refuse to form a full picture. I remember his presence behind me. His mouth finding my neck. Hands snaking where they had no right to wander. The feeling of my body not responding fast enough, not clearly enough, like I was slightly removed from it. Then waking. Naked. Him beside me, also naked. The confusion came first. Thick, disorienting. I remember reaching down, feeling for answers that slipped through the cracks of my mind. “Did something happen?” I asked. He was calm. Reassuring. “No.” Then he took my hand. Placed it on his penis. “You’re alright,” he said. “I can’t get an erection.” As if that explained everything. As if that meant nothing had happened. As if that made it okay. Back in the flat, on the sofa, I feel that same thread of unease tightening. The man beside me shifts again, just slightly. “Do you want to see something?” he asks. There it is. The moment. The one where everything tips. I already know how this goes. I can feel the shape of it forming, familiar and inevitable. “Yeah… okay,” I say. The bedroom feels like confirmation. My pulse picks up, loud and insistent, every step forwards weighted with expectation. I brace myself without meaning to — mentally preparing for the moment where I realise I’ve done it again. Trusted too easily. Stayed too long. Ignored that quiet, persistent voice telling me to leave. He moves past me, unhurried, completely at ease. “Here,” he says. I turn. And everything… stops. It’s a painting. Large. Abstract. Colour bleeding into colour in a way that feels chaotic and deliberate all at once. It’s the first thing in the entire flat that feels alive, imperfect, real. I stare at it, struggling to reconcile the expectation I carried into this room with the reality in front of me. “That’s… what you wanted to show me?” He smiles, almost sheepishly. “Yeah. I thought you’d like it.” The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It isn’t dangerous. It’s just quiet. And in that quiet, something shifts. Because the fear I felt — the certainty that something was about to go wrong — didn’t come from him. It came from me. From everything I’ve learned to ignore. Every instinct I’ve overridden. Every time I stayed when I should have walked away. I built that pattern. Now I expect it everywhere. Even when it isn’t there. I let out a breath, a small, almost embarrassed laugh escaping before I can stop it. “Sorry,” I say. “I thought this was going to go very differently.” He tilts his head, curious. “Oh?” And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Not that he wanted something from me. But that I expected him to. That I walked into that room already shrinking, already bracing, already preparing to absorb something that hasn’t even happened. I look back at the painting. Messy. Chaotic. Still whole. Maybe that’s me. Not broken. Just someone who’s trusted too easily, for too long — and is only now beginning to understand the difference between kindness… …and the quiet voice that says leave. The one I keep hearing — and ignoring — right before the knock.