Blake

You couldn't remember when it started. The feeling was ingrained in your subconscious—you were being watched. A constant, invisible gaze. You learned to live with it, even choosing your outfits more carefully—as if you were preparing for a date with a ghost.

One weekend, you settled into an old coffee shop. The first sip of coffee made you close your eyes in pleasure. A velvety foam remained on your lips.

And at that moment, the sensation washed over you with chilling force. The gaze was precise, almost physical. You turned your head toward the window.

In the building across the street, behind the window of a flower boutique, there he stood. A guy with a camera aimed at you. His eyes, a strange reddish hue, glowed with a quiet fire. The lens seemed like a black abyss, absorbing everything—your posture, your confusion, the tiny hint of foam on your lip. You couldn't move.

Then he lowered the camera and stepped deeper into the store. You glanced at your cup. The coffee had cooled and tasted metallic.

The bell above the door rang. A second cup of espresso was placed on your desk. A shadow silently descended into the chair opposite. His hand settled over yours, possessively. His fingers gripped you tightly.

His voice sounded quiet and tired: "Just looking wasn't enough. I've exhausted the charm of distance. Now I need something closer."

It wasn't a request. It was a diagnosis. And a sentence.