You haunt my dreams. The image of your eyes, wild and unforgiving, is scarred into my memory. You lie surrounded by your bulging bags-for-life, taking up the whole hallway. What is in them? How do you carry them all? You are a mystery; your unpredictability scares me. You stare up at me from the darkness of the floor, like a beast stalking its prey. You are waiting for me. Taunting me. You have all the power.

I stand inside my top-floor Parisian apartment every night for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes just listening. Listening for any sound, any false move you might make that will alert me to your presence. I imagine us standing on either side of the cold metal door, each pressed against it hoping to catch the other out. I can’t bring myself to open the door, instead simply resigning myself to my fate and saying my goodbyes.

Once I do leave my apartment the next day, I can’t face coming home, if I can even call it that anymore. You have taken away the one place that I am meant to feel safe in this terrifying and threatening city. You have invaded my space, and now I am the one who is homeless. I have always been a nomad, never really belonging anywhere, and now you have made sure that I don’t settle here. I fear that you will be there when I come back, spread out on the floor of the hallway, making yourself at home just to terrorise me.

I stand outside on the street at 3AM looking into my picture-perfect Haussmann-style building in the 5tharrondissement. No sign of life inside. The door is shut, lights are off. I punch in the code and press the button for the lights, making my presence known. There is a cigarette butt on the floor. Maybe just one of my neighbours being careless. I open the second internal door and listen for sounds of you as I wait for the lift. I can hear it plummeting from the top floor and pray this is due to one of my neighbours coming home late, and not you. I pull open the door to the old-fashioned lift, and the smell hits me. Stale sweat and cigarettes from people coming back after a long day of work, or the stench of homelessness and deprivation? I take a deep breath of clean air before stepping into the tiny metal cage that is waiting to carry me to my death.

I press the button for the sixth (top) floor and feel my stomach knotting as the doors close. I grip my pepper spray tightly in my right hand and hold my thumb over the emergency call button on my phone. My left hand is positioned over the ground floor button, ready to make a quick escape if needed.  It also holds my keys for back up protection, and to eliminate any wasted time looking for them at my door when you could be lurking nearby. I feel sick, my heart is pounding, my breathing quickens. I watch through the small glass panel as the lift rises past each floor, empty of inhabitants. I am alone.

The fifth floor disappears below me. This is it. The moment of truth. Fight or die. I think I’ve stopped breathing. The lift halts to a stop and I peer out again through the thin pane of glass in the door. My eyes scan first left, then right. Clear. Nothing but the three doormats welcoming you to our homes, resting on the stone floor. I push the door open slowly and step into the hall, swivelling around to make sure you’re not hiding on the stairs behind me. I look over the bannister to the fifth floor. Clear. I run to my door and force my trembling hand to shove the key into the lock. I slam the door behind me and throw the three locks into place. I scan my apartment to make sure you are not waiting for me in the wardrobe, behind the shower curtain, or on my balcony. I block my bedroom door with a chair after finding it empty, and I collapse onto my bed shivering and crying. I close my eyes and am faced with yours, staring disdainfully back at me.