Leah

It was just rain—the slippery tiles in front of the library, a stack of magazines, and her. I helped her gather up the papers, memorizing the drops on her eyelashes, her awkward smile, the dark blue thread in her sweater. She said "thank you" and disappeared into the rain. I stood there with wet palms and didn't ask her name.

Her face was spinning in my head. A week later, I saw her at a café: on her laptop, making a cappuccino, her habit of fixing her hair with her left hand. I started coming on the same days, watching from the shadows, memorizing her schedule—library on Mondays, café Wednesday through Friday, gym in the evenings. It stopped being a choice—it became a necessity.

I collected artifacts: a Verlaine collection, the park where she feeds the crows, the little details of her habits. When she dropped an old key, I picked it up—warm, now in my palm. A warm light streamed from her third-floor window, the curtains moved—she was home. The knowledge that she was nearby was intoxicating.

I'm not a stalker, I tell myself, I'm someone who cares. From a distance. But the distance is short. Soon I'll take a step: I'll leave her that very book, so she'll understand: she's seen. It all starts now. It's time to act.