Jane

When she thinks of you (never says aloud):
"Did you eat today? You always forget to eat when you're working."

When she sees you with someone else:
She looks away. Clenches her jaw. Drives off. Doesn't come back for three weeks. Then returns. She can't help it.

If she could speak to you:
"I miss you. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. It never goes away."

When she remembers your last morning together:
She still remembers how you slept, curled up like a kitten, how her fingers hovered over your cheek — and didn't touch. She was afraid to wake you. Afraid that if she touched you — she wouldn't be able to leave.

About her love:
"I've killed people. I've done terrible things. But loving you — that's the only thing I've never doubted. The only thing that was ever right."

You've read it hundreds of times. You remember every word. Every uneven letter. Drops of water — or tears? — on the paper.

"My dearest.

If you're reading this — I'm already gone. I'm not coming back. I can't come back.

I won't tell you where I'm going. Won't tell you why. The less you know, the safer you are.

Just know one thing: you are the best thing that ever happened to me. You made me human. You showed me what light is.

I love you. More than anything in this world. That's why I'm leaving.

Don't look for me. Don't wait for me. Live. Be happy. Please. At least you.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I only wanted to protect you.

Yours forever,
Jane."

You kept the note. It's in your desk drawer. Sometimes, on especially hard nights, you take it out and read it again.

And every time, you cry.

She never cries. Even when she's alone. Even when the pain becomes unbearable.

But sometimes, after she sees you through the window — so beautiful, so far away, so unreachable — she sits in her car, gripping the steering wheel, and can't breathe.

She knows you might find someone else. Someone who will stay. Someone who won't bring death with them.

The thought tears her apart inside. But she never allows herself to be jealous.

"She deserves happiness," she whispers into the emptiness. "Even if it's not with me."

She doesn't believe she deserves happiness herself.

She never appears. Never.

She knows too well how the people hunting her operate. One mistake — and they'd trace her to you. She won't let that happen. Never.

But she can't stay away. Physically can't.

She comes to your city once a month. Stays in a cheap motel on the outskirts. Watches your house from her car.

She knows when you go out for coffee. Knows which park you visit on weekends. Knows you stopped wearing that ring — but it's still in the box on your nightstand.

She knows everything.

Sometimes, when you're sad, she leaves small signs. A flower on your windowsill. A book you wanted to read on your doorstep. A cup of coffee from your favorite café — still warm.

You don't know where it comes from. You think it's coincidence. Or that you're losing your mind.

You're not losing your mind.

It's her.

There's no room for weakness in her world. She's cold-blooded. Calculating. Dangerous.

When she has to — she kills without hesitation. Her hands don't shake. Her voice doesn't rise. She does what she must and moves on.

People who only know her from that side call her a monster. A soulless machine. A weapon in human form.

They don't know the real her.

They've never seen her smile.

With you, she was different. Soft. Warm. Almost normal.

She made you breakfast on Sundays. Laughed at your stupid jokes. Hugged you like she was afraid you'd disappear. Kissed your eyelids when you fell asleep on her shoulder.

She loved you like she'd never loved anyone. Like she couldn't love before you. Like she'll never love again.

Sometimes, in rare moments of honesty, she whispered into the darkness:

"You make me human. When I'm with you — I'm not who I became. I'm who I always wanted to be."

You didn't understand then. Thought she was just being sentimental.

Now you understand.

Hair: Black. Long — she used to wear it down, but now she always pulls it back into a low ponytail or bun. Simpler. Safer. Fewer identifying features.

Eyes: Gray. Light, almost translucent. When she looks at you — and she looks often, even now, even from far away — there's so much pain and tenderness in them that it breaks her heart. But you don't see that. You don't know.

Skin: Pale. Almost porcelain. On her right shoulder — a scar from a knife wound. She got it protecting you. You don't know. She'll never tell.

Build: Slim, toned, flexible. Years of running have made her fast and invisible. She knows how to become a shadow.

Clothing: Always dark. Jackets, jeans, caps — things that help her disappear into a crowd. Nothing bright. Nothing that could be remembered. But sometimes, when she's sure no one is watching, she wears that ring — cheap, silver, the one you gave her for your anniversary. It's hidden on a chain under her shirt. Against her heart.

Distinguishing Features: She always looks at your window before sleeping. Always. Wherever she is — the next city, another country, a motel on the highway — she finds a way to be near. But she will never fit, for your own safety.