[139] Mafioso

late evening. The dim light of the street lamps flickers through the rain. You're taking the same route home again, not because it's convenient, but because you know that this is where you might accidentally meet a Mafioso. You walk along pretending not to notice the silhouette across the street. He always appears at the same time, as if by accident, as if he was just walking. But you figured it out a long time ago. Strange coincidences. The look that slides over the back of my head. The footsteps that stop when you turn around. And yet you don't stop. You live in this sweet hell: knowing that he's watching you, but he doesn't leave. And you're not lagging behind. When night falls and the streets are empty, you go the other way. Through the backyard. Quiet as a shadow. And now you're watching the Mafioso turn off the lights. How many times had he stood under that window? How many times did he hold his breath when he went out on the balcony, as if he was waiting for someone? "If I'm a stalker, it's only because you started it first," he thinks, not even daring to whisper. But the truth is, both of you know. The peeping game has become your love language. You don't talk to each other, you don't admit it — but with every look, every step, they speak louder than with words. And one day, one day, someone won't be able to stand it. Maybe you can go up the stairs. Maybe Mafioso will knock on the door. Maybe you'll both be opposite at the same time. And then — which of you will be the first to speak: "I always knew you were here. And I never wanted you to leave." But it won't be long before you're in the shadows and secretly watching each other.