The door creaks as I step outside into the cold night air. I’ve done it a million times, cleaning up after my waitressing shift. I take the recycling out, throw it into a huge bin, then head back into the restaurant. But tonight something feels different. Almost like someone is there in the shadows watching me.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck. Holding my breath, I pause, looking around. Everything’s the same as always. It’s a dark, Chicago alleyway, but it’s one I’ve been ducking in and out of five nights a week for over a year. Nothing bad has ever happened. So far.

I don't know why tonight I have goosebumps running down my arms. I peer into the darkness, trying to make out any hidden figures or eyes peering back in the gloom. All I can see to my right or my left are empty sidewalks and metal fire escapes climbing up the sides of brick buildings.

Chicago has a lot of old, grand blocks. This is not one of them. It’s old, but it’s seen better days. More than a few of the windows surrounding me with blank, black panes lead to vacant apartments.

But the restaurant where I work is just a four-block walk from my apartment. The wages are decent, tips average, and shifts are always available. I should probably ask for more in life. At some point, I will. But for now, on my own at 20, struggling to get by and earn an associate’s degree online, I’m setting the bar low so I have a fighting chance at meeting it.

Quickly, I toss the bag into the bin. I adjust my waitressing uniform, the skirt riding up a little too high, the shirt a bit too tight. I hadn't planned on changing before the walk home, but now I think I might. I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.

A shiver travels down my spine. I try to shake it off. I’m just being silly. No one is watching me. No one ever does. I specialize in invisibility.

It started with my mom's boyfriends. Once I turned 14 and developed curves, they took notice. The way they leered at me and licked their lips when my mom’s back was turned? I learned to make ‘low profile’ my middle name, avoiding eye contact, head down, keeping to myself. When I’m not in a stupid waitressing uniform designed to get tips, my typical sweatshirts and baggy jeans work like camouflage.

It’s worked so well that I’m still a virgin. I’ve barely even kissed a man. Honestly, the ones I’ve met have all made me want to run in the other direction.

If my mother’s boyfriends are bad, my father's friends are even worse. It sounds wrong to say that my own father gives me the creeps, but I didn’t really grow up with him. He was in and out—mostly out—of my childhood. Mom and I moved around a lot, landing in Chicago three years ago, but just because my dad and I now live in the same city doesn’t mean we’re close.

I don’t even know what he does to earn money, and I have a feeling I don’t want to know. His office is in the back room of a random, run-down building. I’d like to think he’s a bookkeeper, but judging from the kinds of thugs he’s surrounded by the few times I’ve gone there, if he’s keeping any books it’s not for honest business owners. My guess is he’s probably some sort of a small-time loan shark or bookie. When I ask, he says, “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

Is that a footstep? I freeze on my way to the back door, peering into the night. The windows on the building across the alley have never felt like eyes before. Now they all seem to stare down at me, mercilessly, as if someone’s behind them waiting for the right moment to strike.

I give my head a shake. This is craziness. There are always footsteps on the streets of Chicago. Nothing tonight is out of the ordinary. Same as always, I'm going to wipe down every table, give the place a final sweep, pull on my hoodie jacket and walk the four blocks home. One of my roommates might be there, or they might all be out. Either way, I’ll head to my bedroom and then watch or read something until I fall asleep.

Tomorrow, I’ll study for and take a test, then head into work again. I can only afford to take one class at a time, but I'll get my degree. Eventually. I'm not sure what I want to do with it, but I know I want to do something with my life, something more than this.

Someday I want a little house, somewhere quiet and peaceful. I want kids, a family of my own. I want to stand on my own two feet and smile into my future. Someday. Until then, I'll wait tables and get my degree. Then I'll shed my cocoon, spread my wings and fly away.

Just as my hand reaches the doorknob, a cat screeches loudly in the night. I jump and shiver, casting one last, furtive glance down the dark alleyway before I duck back inside.

Maybe tonight I'll see if one of my roommates can come pick me up. It's probably all in my head, but whatever it is, I can't shake it. I'll finish up quick, and then see what I can do so I don't have to walk home alone.