#FERRARI | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theonottsbxtch · 2 days ago

Text

ANXIETY | CL16

an: this was a request by @iimplicitt, it's based off of the song by doechii and i had so much fun with this and so did she when i was writing it and she was watching me live.

warning: stalking, (not good for those with schizophrenia or ocd)

wc: 3.8k

SHE FELT IT AGAIN.

That unshakable, skin-crawling sensation creeping up her spine, settling like cold hands at the nape of her neck. The bus was crowded—no shortage of strangers pressed too close, their breaths and whispers mingling in the stagnant air—but this was different. Singular. Specific.

Her fingers clenched the strap of her bag as she forced herself to breathe in slow, deliberate counts.

One. Two. Three.

It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real.

She told her therapist last week—again—that she felt watched. That every room she entered held an extra pair of eyes, just out of sight. Dr. Rodgriguez had smiled gently, her voice syrup-smooth, and suggested grounding techniques. "Anxiety distorts reality," she’d said. "Your mind is crafting threats where there are none."

But what if it wasn’t?

She stepped off the bus into the drizzle, the sky a dull bruise above her. The city’s pulse carried on as normal—traffic groaning, conversations bleeding into one another—but beneath it all, she swore she could hear it. The sound of her own existence being observed.

She was losing her mind.

Charles, her ever charming coworker, was already waiting at the office when she arrived, his usual cup of coffee in hand, his usual easy smile in place. The small acts of kindness never failed to relieve her on those days where she was sure someone was watching her.

“You look tired,” he remarked, eyes flicking over her face with something she couldn’t quite place.

She forced a laugh, her grip tightening on her bag. “Didn’t sleep well.”

She didn’t add why.

She didn’t say that last night, she had woken up to the feeling of breath on her cheek—only to find her bedroom window, which she swore she had locked, standing slightly ajar.

She spent the morning drowning in emails, half-reading sentences that tangled and blurred. The office hummed with its usual monotony—phones ringing, keyboards clattering, conversations low and murmuring. But beneath it all, she could still feel it. That weight. That presence. Like something crouching just outside her field of vision.

Charles worked across from her, as he always did. A steady, unbothered rhythm. He had a way of making himself comfortable in spaces, like he belonged there, like he belonged anywhere.

Unlike her.

She twisted the ring on her finger—an old habit, skin raw from the constant friction. Her breath felt thin in her chest. She was losing it.

At lunch, she stepped outside for air, the city slick with fresh rain, neon signs bleeding colour onto the pavement. She pressed her back against the cold brick of the building and pulled out her phone.

Missed call: Dr RodriguezVoicemail (1:32 minutes)

Her thumb hovered over the play button.

Her reflection in the screen stared back—pale, exhausted, the dark smudges under her eyes betraying the war she was losing with sleep. A shadow shifted in the glass. Behind her.

She spun, pulse lurching—

Nothing.

Just a man lighting a cigarette. A couple laughing as they walked by. A row of windows, half-covered with blinds, office workers moving in faceless silhouettes.

She exhaled sharply, a bitter taste rising in her throat.

The voicemail could wait.

When she returned to her desk, Charles glanced up. His gaze lingered for a second too long.

“You alright?”

Her skin prickled. “Yeah. Fine.”

His lips twitched—something like amusement, or maybe curiosity. “Liar.”

She let out a breathless laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Because later, when she went home and locked the door behind her—checked it twice, three times, pressed her palm flat against the wood just to be sure—she found something strange.

Her bedside lamp was on.

She was sure she’d turned it off that morning. Positive.

And on her pillow, right where her head would rest—

A single red thread.

She stared at it, breath frozen in her throat. It was nothing. Had to be nothing.

But still, she didn’t sleep.

Not even when the exhaustion weighed heavy behind her eyes. Not even when the wind rattled the window, whispering secrets into the night.

Somewhere, in the dark space between awake and dreaming, she thought she heard something.

A breath.

Or maybe—

A laugh.

The night stretched long and thin, stitched together with half-dreams and the restless shifting of sheets. She lay still, spine pressed to the mattress, listening to the house breathe.

The radiator groaned. The pipes whispered. The walls held their silence.

But something else lingered in the quiet. A weight in the air, thick and cloying, curling like smoke around the edges of her perception.

She stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks that bloomed like veins.

Had those always been there?

The red thread still sat on her pillow, untouched. A pinprick of colour in the dim glow of her bedside lamp. A thread, a thread, a thread—what did it mean? Had it fallen from her coat? Had she brought it in with her, unknowingly?

Or had it been left?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to sit up. Her limbs felt like lead. She hadn't eaten. Hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Maybe this was it—maybe this was where the mind unraveled, thread by thread, until nothing was left but loose ends.

By morning, she was still awake.

Still breathing. Still whole.

But something had shifted.

On the way to work, the world felt sharper. The footsteps behind her landed too precisely, too in sync with her own. The reflections in shop windows seemed delayed, moving a fraction of a second too late, as if something was pretending to be her shadow but hadn't quite learned the rhythm.

Inside the office, the air smelled sterile—paper and coffee and something metallic underneath. She took her seat. Logged in. Tried to exist like a normal person.

But Charles was watching her.

Not obviously. Not overtly.

But in the way his fingers hovered too long over his keyboard before he typed. In the way his head tilted, just slightly, when she wasn’t looking.

She wondered what he saw when he looked at her.

Did she look different? Changed?

Did he see the exhaustion pressed deep into the hollows of her face? The way she flinched when someone walked too close?

Or did he see something else entirely?

“Long night?” His voice was smooth, threading into the static hum of the office.

She forced a smile, brittle and thin. “Something like that.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily. “You should sleep more. Bad things happen when you don’t.”

Her heart stammered against her ribs.

It was nothing. Just a comment.

But then he smiled.

And she could have sworn—sworn on everything, on her bones, on her breath—that there was something lurking beneath it.

Something that knew.

She spent the morning in a daze, thoughts tangled like static-wrapped wires, her body running on muscle memory. Click. Type. Scroll. Blink.

She was here, but she wasn’t here.

Her skin felt stretched too tight over her bones, her nerves pulled like violin strings, ready to snap. She couldn’t shake the sensation of movement in her periphery—shapes that flickered and disappeared the second she turned to look.

At some point, she found herself gripping her coffee cup too hard, fingers white-knuckled around the paper rim. She hadn’t even taken a sip.

Then—

A touch.

Light. Fleeting. A simple press of fingers against her shoulder.

But it was wrong.

Too sudden, too unexpected, too much.

She flinched so violently the coffee lurched from her hands, a dark flood spilling down her front, scalding against her skin.

“Shit.” Her breath hitched. The world tilted, heat and embarrassment crawling up her neck like vines.

A chuckle. Low. Smooth.

Charles.

She barely registered him moving before he was already there, grabbing a handful of napkins from her desk, his hands careful as he pressed them against the fabric of her blouse.

“Easy,” he murmured, dabbing at the mess. “You’re jumpy today.”

Jumpy. Jumpy. Like a rabbit caught in the open, trembling under the weight of unseen eyes.

She swallowed, tried to laugh it off. “Didn’t hear you walk up.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His lips curled, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. “Here, let me—”

He shrugged off his suit jacket, offering it to her. She hesitated, but the damp chill of coffee clinging to her skin made the decision for her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, slipping it over her shoulders.

And then—

Something stopped her.

Something small. Insignificant.

Something that shouldn’t have meant anything at all.

The lining of his jacket.

Red.

The exact same shade as the thread on her pillow.

The world shuddered around her, sound fading into a distant hum. Her fingers twitched against the fabric, stomach twisting into something ugly, something sharp.

Coincidence. It was a coincidence.

Wasn’t it?

She forced herself to move, to breathe, to exist like a normal person.

“Better?” Charles asked, tilting his head slightly.

She nodded. Swallowed the unease sticking to the back of her throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She turned away too quickly, focusing on her phone as she unlocked it with shaking hands.

Me: Hi, Dr. Rodriguez. Can I book an urgent appointment? Please.

The message sent.

Her pulse thundered beneath her skin.

She wasn’t crazy.

She wasn’t.

But then why did she feel like the walls were closing in?

And why, when she glanced up, was Charles still watching her?

Smiling.

Like he knew something she didn’t.

She was at Dr. Rodriguez’s office by 5. The office smelled like lavender and something sterile underneath. A candle burned low on the desk, its wax pooled like melted bone.

She sat curled in the chair, wringing her hands in her lap. The fabric of Charles’ jacket - wait no, her own jacket - felt heavier than it should.

“I just feel… like I’m falling out of myself,” she said finally, voice fraying at the edges. “Like I’m in my body, but not in my body. Like something else is watching through my eyes.”

Dr Rodriguez hummed, scribbling something down. “You’ve mentioned before that your anxiety manifests as hyper-vigilance. Do you feel unsafe?”

Yes.

No.

Both.

She liked her lips. “I- I keep finding things.”

Dr. Rodriguez looked up. “Things?”

“Threads,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Red ones. In places they shouldn’t be. My room, my pillow, my clothes.”

She expected Dr. Rodriguez’s expression to shift - concern, curiosity, something - but she only nodded. As if this were expected. As if she were predictable.

“Anxiety has a way of creating patterns where there are none. The brain seeks familiarity, even in chaos. It’s why we see faces in clouds, shapes in shadows.”

A pause. A careful glance.

“I’m going to prescribe you something. A low dose anti-anxiety medication. It should help take the edge off.”

She stared. “That’s it?”

“You’re exhausted,” Dr. Rodriguez said, her voice kind but firm. “Your mind is playing tricks on you. Get some rest. Take the medication. I promise, things will feel clearer soon.”

She wanted to believe her.

She really did.

When she got home, her body moved on autopilot. Kicked off her shoes. Shed her coat. Pressed her fingers against the lock on the door, just to make sure.

Her bedroom was the same as she had left it. No signs of intrusion- there never was. No misplaced objects - except for the single red thread lying on the floor beside her bed.

She saw it.

She left it.

If she ignored it, it wouldn’t mean anything.

Maybe it would stop existing altogether.

She swallowed the first dose of the medication with a sip of water, barely tasting it. Lay down. Stared at the ceiling until sleep finally dragged her under.

________________________________________________________________________

The following morning the office smelled like paper and burnt coffee, the usual hum of keyboards and distant chatter wrapping around her in something close to normalcy.

Until she reached her desk.

And stopped breathing.

Bundles.

Neat, deliberate bundles of red threads sat in a perfect row across her desk.

Knotted. Tied. Arranged like little offerings.

Her vision blurred. The office warped and swayed around her. The walls stretched, bending toward her like hungry things.

A gasp caught in her throat, sharp and strangled.

“He’s here.”

Her own voice. But distant, warped, broken.

Louder now-

“He’s here.”

She was shaking, hands white-knuckled at her sides. The air felt thick, pressing in, suffocating.

People turned. Stared. The office held its breath.

Then-

Arms wrapped around her.

Too tight. Too sudden.

Charles.

His voice was a low murmur against her ear. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Breathe. You’re safe.”

Her blood turned electric. She thrashed against him.

“Get off me!”

He pulled back immediately, hands raised in surrender. Confusion flickered across his face.

“What?”

She stumbled backward, chest heaving, her heart a live animal clawing at her ribs.

“I-” her throat closed up. Everyone was watching her. Eyes wide. Concerned.

The bundles of thread sat silently on her desk. Mocking her.

Charles was still staring at her, brows drawn together, lips parted like he was about to say something but had no idea what.

And all she could think was—

What if he didn’t put them there?

Then who did?

The walls loomed closer. The room pulsed like a living thing.

She needed to get out.

Now.

The office was a blur.

A mess of wide eyes and half-formed whispers. The air was thick. Too thick, pressing against her ribs like it was trying to crack it open.

Charles stood there frozen, hands still raised from when she’d pushed him away.

“What the fuck?” His voice was sharp but confused, eyebrows drawn together like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that didn't make sense.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She took another step back. “Leave me alone.”

His expression flickered—something like hurt, quickly masked by disbelief. “I am leaving you alone. What’s going on?”

The room swayed.

“The thread,” she whispered, voice cracking. “It’s the same.”

Charles blinked, his confusion deepening. “The what? The same as what?!”

“The thread!” She was shouting now, wild, frantic, barely recognising the sound of her own voice. “The red thread—on my pillow, on my floor—on my desk! It’s yours, I know it’s yours!”

Her colleagues shifted uncomfortably, a few exchanging glances.

Charles exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turned toward the others, an almost pleading look on his face. “I don’t know what she’s on about.”

She grabbed at her temples, squeezing her eyes shut against the sudden ache drilling into her skull.

“You’re lying,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You— you have to be. It’s the same colour as your suit jacket!”

Charles hesitated. Then, in one slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the edge of his suit jacket.

“You mean this?”

He lifted it, exposing the lining.

She braced herself. She knew what she’d see.

But—

Navy.

Not red. Not even close.

A deep, unremarkable navy.

“The thread of all my clothes is navy,” Charles said, his voice careful now, like he was speaking to a wild animal. “My family colours. Always has been.”

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

Her knees gave out. The floor slammed into her, cold and merciless. The room stretched, warped, swallowed itself whole.

It wasn’t possible.

She’d seen it. She knew.

Hadn’t she?

Somewhere, distantly, she could hear people talking. Someone kneeling beside her. A hand on her shoulder. But it all blurred into static, white noise flooding her ears.

The threads.

The threads were real.

Weren’t they?

Her lungs stuttered, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

Something was wrong.

Something was watching her.

And now—

Now she had no idea what was real anymore.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her chest heaved, lungs burning, but the air wasn’t getting in. The walls were too close, pressing in, suffocating. The voices around her blurred, merging into an indistinct hum.

Someone said her name.

Her hands curled into fists against the carpet.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

But it was. It had to be.

The thread. The thread was real.

So why—why wasn’t anyone else seeing it? Why was Charles standing there, looking at her like she was unraveling at the seams?

She squeezed her eyes shut, a broken sob tearing from her throat.

And then—

A touch.

Gentle. Careful. A hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

She flinched.

“Hey.”

Charles.

His voice was softer now, cautious, like he was afraid she might shatter if he spoke too loudly.

She blinked up at him, her vision warped with tears. His face hovered above her, blurred and unreadable.

“I—” Her voice failed her. Her entire body trembled, her limbs useless, her breath stuttering between sobs.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he crouched beside her, his hand still resting on her shoulder—warm, grounding, real.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted, voice low, steady. “But I think you need to breathe.”

She shook her head, curling in on herself. “I can’t.”

She felt him shift closer. Felt the warmth of him, steady against the cold creeping under her skin.

“Yeah, you can.” His hand traced slow circles against her back, a careful reassurance. “Just follow me, okay? In—” He inhaled, deep and slow. “And out.”

Her breath hitched.

Charles exhaled, patient.

“In—”

She tried. Gasped. Stumbled.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Again.”

She did. A little steadier this time. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeve, gripping onto something solid.

Somewhere in the fog of her mind, she knew this was wrong.

She shouldn’t be letting him touch her. She shouldn’t be folding into him like this, shouldn’t be shaking against his chest like a wounded thing.

But he was there.

Holding her up when everything else was slipping away.

So she let herself break.

She pressed her forehead into his shoulder, her tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, her body wracked with silent sobs.

Charles stilled.

Then, carefully, he wrapped his arms around her.

Not too tight. Not suffocating. Just… holding.

“It’s okay,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re okay.”

She wasn’t.

But right now, with his arms around her, she could almost pretend.

Almost.

The office buzzed around them, a distant, faraway thing. She barely registered the murmurs, the hesitant shuffling of her colleagues. Someone asked if they should call someone. Someone else asked if she needed water.

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

All she could do was cling to Charles, her fingers still fisted in his sleeve, her body betraying her, seeking warmth in the one person she shouldn’t trust. Or could she? He was her coworker - he hasn’t done anything wrong or had he?

He didn’t push her away.

Didn’t rush her.

Just held her, quiet and patient, his breath steady against her hair.

“You’re okay,” he murmured again, and for one stupid, fleeting moment, she almost believed him.

Then—

A shift. A presence.

Someone—one of her colleagues—was stepping forward, hesitant. “Hey, maybe we should—”

Charles cut them off. “She needs space.” His voice was firm, edged with authority. “Let’s not overwhelm her.”

The others hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances.

“She should go home,” someone muttered.

“She shouldn’t be alone,” another whispered.

Charles exhaled through his nose. “I’ll take her.”

The words barely registered. She was still drowning, still struggling to piece reality back together.

Then his fingers brushed against hers, a silent request.

“Let me take you home,” he said gently. “You need to rest.”

She should have said no.

She should have.

But the world was tilting, her thoughts unraveling at the edges, and Charles was the only solid thing left to hold onto.

So she nodded.

The journey to her flat was slow, every streetlight flickering past like a ghost of normalcy. Her head was a fog, thoughts slipping in and out like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands. She couldn’t keep track of time, couldn’t feel the cold or the warmth—just the distant hum of the car engine and Charles’ quiet presence beside her.

When they arrived, he didn’t immediately leave. He stayed by her side, guiding her up the stairs with gentle hands, his movements smooth, reassuring.

“You should rest,” he murmured, voice soft but insistent, leading her into her flat like a caretaker, like someone who belonged here.

Everything felt too calm.

Too... right.

The flat smelled of tea and the faint scent of lavender, warm and inviting. Charles wasted no time. He pushed her to sit on the couch, draped a blanket over her shoulders.

“Just stay here for a moment,” he said, almost lovingly. “I’ll make you something.”

She nodded, too tired to argue.

The sound of the kettle boiling, the clink of cups, the soft shuffle of his footsteps. He was so attentive, so gentle. The care in his touch felt almost safe—and that was the problem.

She should have known better.

Her eyes fluttered shut, the exhaustion taking over. She barely registered him moving behind her, gathering her hair gently. The soft brush of his hands against her neck.

Then—

A knot.

A pull of fabric.

She blinked, confused. Her heart skipped a beat.

Something was wrong.

She couldn’t quite place it. But the way he was tying her hair—his fingers moving with a precision that felt… too familiar—too careful—

There it was again.

The thread.

The red thread.

She caught a glimpse of it, bright against the dark strands of her hair. Her pulse quickened. Her stomach lurched.

No.

Not again.

Her breath grew shallow. Red. The thread was red.

No.

She stood up, her vision spinning as she backed away, shaking her head. “No, no, no—”

Charles was still standing there, an almost serene expression on his face as he finished securing the knot. “There, all done. You’ll feel better now.”

But her mind was spiraling. She could feel her chest tightening. Her hands were clammy.

“I—I told you, I don’t want this. I don’t—” Her voice cracked. “The thread, Charles. The red thread—it’s the same.”

Charles blinked, his brow furrowing as he took a step closer, his voice soft. “It’s just thread, love. Nothing to worry about.”

But she wasn’t listening anymore. Her heart was racing in her chest, the world narrowing until there was only him—only Charles, standing there with the red thread, with the calm, reassuring look in his eyes.

Her legs buckled beneath her, the room spinning. Her body betrayed her, forcing her to collapse back onto the couch. She gasped for air, clutching her chest as if the pressure was crushing her.

Charles was beside her instantly, lifting her up, his hands warm and gentle as he helped her settle back against the cushions.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice soothing, steady. “You’re safe now.”

The tea. The thread. His presence.

The weight of it all pressed against her, dulling her senses, pulling her under like quicksand.

She blinked up at him, her vision growing hazy. “I— I don’t feel…”

“I know,” Charles said quietly, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. “You’re tired. You need rest. I told you I’d take care of you. Like I always have.”

And before she could protest, before she could make sense of the words or the thoughts crowding her mind, everything went black.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

246 notes · View notes