The Note

The year was 2023.

I was still in my first year of transition.

My job at the time involved visiting builder’s merchant branches across the country to provide training and investigate issues with systems and procedures. It was a process improvement role, which essentially meant lots of travel, time spent alone, and night after night in anonymous hotel rooms.

This particular trip took me to Worthing, where I was staying for two nights at a Travelodge on the seafront.

On the second night, I didn’t feel like going out, so I headed down to the hotel’s lower ground floor to get some food. I wasn’t dressed in anything remarkable – just a simple top and skirt. I hovered at the counter for a moment, unsure of what I wanted. A man came up behind me, so I let him go ahead.

Eventually, I ordered a pizza and two sealed glass bottles of Coke; a detail that will matter later.

With my food in hand, I skipped the lift (small, claustrophobic, rattly – I’m nervous in lifts at the best of times) and climbed the winding stairwell up to my room on the top floor. As I ascended, I got an odd feeling … that unmistakable feeling of being watched. I glanced back and thought I saw someone on a lower landing, just at the edge of my vision. But when I turned to look properly, there was no one there.

A flicker of movement. Then nothing.

I felt panic creeping in but told myself I was being paranoid – just shadows in an old building, tricks of the light. Still, when I reached the top floor, I realised I was gripping one of the Coke bottles by the neck, upside down … like a weapon.

I turned down the corridor, which stretched out and curved slightly. It felt endless. I kept glancing back. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was behind me. When I rounded the bend and lost sight of the stairs, I sped up. I reached my room, quickly unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind me.

I sat down with my pizza and started a TikTok Live, just to feel a bit less alone.

I don’t know how long I’d been streaming, probably a while. I was chatting with my followers, laughing, sharing little moments of the day, answering questions – the usual. Dinner was long finished. Then suddenly, I froze.

A sound came from the door.

It was faint, but unmistakable. I stiffened. My head turned instinctively. The room was fairly large – about twenty feet between me and the door – and I couldn’t see much from where I was sitting.

I lowered my voice and spoke to those on the stream. “Did anyone else hear that?”

I talked it through with my viewers and made the decision to call reception. I explained everything – the stairs, the note, the strange man – and the woman on the desk didn’t hesitate. She offered to move me to a new room and said she’d personally escort me there.

She gave me twenty minutes to gather my things, then came up and knocked gently, clearly announcing herself to avoid making me jump again. I ended my livestream and opened the door. She helped me with my bags and took me to a new room on the ground floor, close to reception. She also took the note, promising to try and identify the guest.

I thanked her and settled into the new room. I locked the door. Then barricaded it with chairs – more for my peace of mind than actual security. I called my adoptive sister Violet, and she stayed on the phone with me until the early hours. She was amazing. Just having someone on the line helped me start to calm down.

Sleep that night was patchy at best.

In the morning, I went to reception to check out. The person on shift was different. She handed the note back to me but didn’t seem to know anything about what had been found – if anything. They couldn’t even confirm the man was a guest.

When I checked my social media, I had a message from someone who had been watching my stream. She’d taken a screenshot of the note. She and a few friends had used the name and phone number to do some digging – and sent me a link to a Facebook profile.

The man in the profile photo was the same one I’d seen in the restaurant area that night. I remembered his face clearly.

I decided to report it to the police. I didn’t have much to go on, but I had something. I kept thinking: if this was a pattern of behaviour, if he had followed others like this before – or worse – then reporting it might make a difference. Even if nothing came of it now, there would be a record.

I still think about it regularly. Two years on, it still affects me.

I’m more cautious now. More aware.

I check exits, listen more, avoid secluded areas, watch my back.

Because I know what it feels like to be watched.

To be followed.

To be seen not just as a woman – but as prey.

Nothing happened.

But it could have.

And that’s enough.