I think I need to move again.

The doctor's called it agrophobia.

I call it a rational reaction after being stalked for two years by an ex.

The moment he was finally jailed, I picked up everything and I got out of there.

Mom said, I'm sorry I could move in with her, but I didn't want her to see what I'd

become.

The new apartment was across the street, cheap, had plenty of delivery services.

Also entered that building, I resolved the closest I'd get to leaving it, was to get

the mail every other day.

I worked from home, freelance writing, unpredictable at best, but I'd managed to get it to work

for me.

The place was actually really nice at first glance.

No cracks, no drafts.

The stove worked like a charm, the fridge was cold, heck, even the light bulbs didn't

need changing.

The building occasionally settled loudly, but it wasn't too loud.

Maintenance made sure this place was nice.

The neighbors weren't too far off either, otherwise I'd only talk to one of them, old lady

who had lived there since the place was built.

A widow had a fat ugly cat, she.

Brought me chocolate chip cookies that tasted even better than my mom's shortly after I

moved in.

...