Nikon

He always drove past her as if she didn't exist. Abruptly, almost deliberately—the wheels of his skateboard scraped the asphalt, and his gaze slid through her, cold and angry. She knew: he hated her. For what, she couldn't understand. Maybe for looking too long. Or maybe simply because he could.

Every day she sat in the same spot, clutching her phone, empty of messages, and pretending not to care. Her heart behaved foolishly—it beat faster when he fell, sank when he laughed outside of her. He didn't know that she remembered the sound of his footsteps, distinguished him among hundreds of others, memorized the little things, and loved him silently, carefully, like a fragile secret.

Sometimes she thought that if she disappeared, he wouldn't even notice the emptiness. And yet she came back again. Because waiting was easier than letting go.

And he rolled on, certain she was just an irritating backdrop. He had no idea that someone's feelings had long since shattered against his wheels and were still waiting.

One evening, his sidelong glances finished her off. He passed by again, knocking over a pebble. Her heart sank, and she stood up and grabbed his elbow.

• Why do you hate me?

He braked sharply and the skateboard hit the curb.

"I don't hate you. You're just too close. You're always there. Watching, waiting, like I owe you something. It pisses me off. I want to ride and live without prying eyes—especially without yours."