The Space Behind

Someone looked at you in the meeting

just a fraction too long,

and now you can't unknow it.

The feeling came first—

a pressure at the base of your skull

before you even turned to catch them

already looking away.

You tried again later. The laptop screen

when it's black and turned off shows you back

in miniature, distorted,

barely there, a version of yourself

that's not quite real enough to be spied on.

But you know they're doing it.

You know the angle of the room now,

where the door is, whether it's open or closed,

the exact distance between your chair

and the wall behind you.

The space behind your head has become

the most important geography.

You're always facing the wrong direction.

You're always someone's view.

At night you think about what they see—

just the back of you, probably.

Just the shape of someone

trying not to be seen,

which is the most visible thing of all.