The Men in Black

The Men in Black

The first time I saw them I thought it was a joke. Two men in black suits perfectly pressed standing in the shadows of the streetlamp outside my apartment. I had never seen them before. No one had. And yet there they were waiting. Their eyes were flat too calm like they had seen everything and nothing at once.

I tried to ignore them at first. I went about my evening locked my door made my tea read my book. But every sound seemed louder than it should every shadow twitching. By the time I looked out the window again they had not moved. They had not even blinked.

The second encounter was at the diner. I was having late night coffee half asleep scribbling notes for a poem when they slid into the booth across from me. No words just that flat gaze. I wanted to ask them what they wanted but the words caught in my throat. My hands shook around the cup. Even the steam felt like it burned.

I do not know you I said finally my voice barely above a whisper.

Still nothing. They just sat there. I could feel their attention like a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders. The coffee grew cold and I realized I was not just nervous I was afraid but afraid in a way that gnawed at the edges of thought itself. My mind tried to reason it away. It was a coincidence. They were actors. Or maybe just tired men in black suits with nothing better to do.

But that did not explain the third time.

I was walking home after midnight street empty except for the hum of a distant traffic light when I felt it watching. The hairs on my neck stood straight. I turned a corner and there they were standing on either side of the sidewalk impossibly still impossibly certain. This time one of them stepped forward not fast not threatening just deliberate.

You should not see this he said.

It was not a question. It was not a warning. It was a statement and I understood then that nothing I did would change it. The air between us became thick as if I had entered another dimension of reality I could not escape. The edges of the street seemed to bend. Even my thoughts felt too loud as though they could hear them.

I ran. Not fast enough but fast enough to get home slam the door lock it barricade it. I sat on the floor knees to chest listening to the silence that pressed against my walls. And then I realized no one would ever believe me. Anyone I told would think I was losing my mind. The Men in Black were not here for proof or explanation. They were here for control.

Days passed. Weeks. I never saw them in the light again. But I could feel the traces of them in everything people who walked too close strangers who lingered too long the slight inexplicable chill that settled over the city when no wind blew. They were everywhere and nowhere.

I tried to write it down tried to capture the terror and the certainty in words. But language failed. My notebooks were full of half formed sentences the pen trembling in my hand as if it knew. And I understood then that some truths are not meant to be spoken. Some presences are too vast to name too precise to ignore.

Even now when I walk the streets at night I feel the weight of their gaze flat and endless. They are not my enemies. They are not my friends. They are something else entirely. And I know without question that I will see them again.

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