I'm Not Hiding (Horror, eating breakfast, "expected")

I've done a few writing competitions, the one from yesterday, October 5, 2019 was the #MicrofictionChallenge250. It's put on by #NYCMidnight. Their website is: www.nycmidnight.com Anybody can do it. It's fun! Do it! At midnight the night before, they posted three things for my team (there were maybe about 80 teams or something, of like, maybe a couple dozen people each, of people from across the globe) - My team had to write in the horror genre, the action of eating breakfast must be involved, and the word 'expected' must be in the story. This is their way of making sure I don't just post a story I've already written. So, yesterday, I spent maybe an hour-ish pounding out, in this case, a micro fiction (less than 250 words), and probably another hour walking around doing my life brainstorming where I wanted to go with it. This is the first time I've written a 'micro fiction'. Kinda fun. Doesn't take over too much of your life, and forces you to get to the point. Some time soonish, a professional editor person will judge the story and provide me with feedback. The top 10 people from each team progress to the next round. (I'm maybe 50/50 on getting to the second round; we'll see). Here it is:

I’m Not Hiding

I twine my fingers through my curls, listening to squeaky steps in the humid, dim stairwell. Just a neighbor. My stomach plummets when I hear the buzzer, though this happens every day. I creep to my front window and look down. No delivery trucks. It buzzes again and I gasp, not daring to move. I wait, but I see no one.

I huddle back under my blanket on the couch and catch a shadow on the back porch, back-lit by city lights keeping the alley safe. My thoughts flicker back to that Saturday morning with my amazing new boyfriend. Charming, intelligent, generous – a surgeon who saves children’s lives. When he worked late, he always made it up to me with breakfast in bed. We were fighting over the last pancake as the news switched to an update on the serial killer terrorizing our city. He’d struck again last night, ending the bright future for a fifth curly-haired young woman. They said she’d fought back. My eyes darted to four raw, red scrapes just extending past his rolled-up sleeves. Did he see my glance?

A short e-mail breakup, some cheap hair dye, a job change and subsequent move I’d been considering anyways, and an abandonment of social media that would be good for anybody. I wasn’t hiding, really, but it was like I’d never existed. Yet here I was. The stairs creaked and I clutched my cell. Was I paranoid, or not paranoid enough? Perhaps tonight will tell.