…”it belongs to Eli. Your roommate’s boyfriend. And he just checked in at your apartment’s Wi-Fi twenty minutes ago.”
I had told no one about my knee except my doctor and my roommate, Sophie. And Sophie told Eli everything. He’d been at our place three or four nights a week for almost a year. He made us pancakes.
My brother told me to stay where I was, at a coffee shop two blocks away, and he’d be there in fifteen minutes. He came with two officers. Sophie was at work. Eli was on our couch when they knocked, and he didn’t even look surprised. He just put his phone face down on the cushion.
On that phone, the officers found photos. Me running. Me stretching outside our building. Me through our kitchen window. There was a folder with my name on it. The man reflected in the shop window, holding up a phone, was him.
I called Sophie from the back of my brother’s car. I was so scared she’d take his side. Instead, she was silent for a long time, and then she said, “I’m coming home. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
She broke up with him that night, standing in our kitchen in front of everyone. Eli was charged with stalking, and we both got protective orders.
My brother helped me lock down every app I own. My Strava is private now, and my route maps hide the first and last half-mile, so they never start at my front door again. Sophie and I moved to a new place in the spring.
My knee healed. Last Sunday, I ran my first 10K since all of this, with my brother jogging beside me the whole way, complaining. At the finish, a stranger leaned over and said, “Nice pace.” I laughed, and for once it was just a nice thing for someone to say.
