She saw his name on the log-in board that night.
Just a single word. A quiet return.
But for her, it felt like the sun had broken through weeks of unrelenting grey.
He was back.
Her heart fluttered so fast she had to minimize the screen, pretending not to care — pretending not to feel everything all at once: the relief, the joy, the ache of waiting finally softening into breathless gratitude.
She didn't see him that night. Not in the hallways. Not by the elevators. Not even in the quiet corners he used to occupy.
But it didn't matter.
Just knowing he was there again — somewhere near — was enough to steady her chest, enough to anchor her in the moment.
That was the first day.
The next day, she lingered a little longer at work. Not for any real reason — at least none she could admit aloud. She stayed behind with her friends, chatting lightly, not quite ready to leave. Something in her told her to wait. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was hope wearing a borrowed face.
As they stepped out of the production floor, she walked ahead — smile relaxed, laughter still on her lips — until she saw him.
There.
Outside, near the lockers. Laptop open. Still. Familiar.
A breath caught in her throat.
Her smile vanished before she could stop it. Not because she wasn't happy to see him — but because her heart had already started its frantic tumbling, unsure of what her face might reveal.
She kept walking. Kept her eyes low. Went to the water station as if nothing had happened, hands trembling slightly as she reached for the paper cup.
Just another ordinary day.
Except it wasn't.
Her friend leaned close, voice low, curious.
"Who's that guy outside? He was watching you the whole time. Like… really watching."
She didn't turn around. She didn't need to.
The chill down her spine told her everything.
He had been watching her.
Following her with his eyes — from the moment she stepped out until the second her friend caught him doing it.
And when he realized someone else had noticed, he looked back down at his screen, feigning interest, as if nothing had happened at all.
Her fingers trembled as she took a sip of water.
It was a small moment.
But it wasn't small to her.
That night passed, and so did another.
Until one evening, while waiting for her ride, she found herself under the quiet streetlights, scrolling mindlessly through her phone.
And then, out of the corner of her eye —
Someone stepped off the mini bus.
Him.
From a distance, he looked the same. Still. Calm. Unbothered by the world around him.
The shape of him was memory and muscle — a silhouette her heart had memorized without permission.
She looked away quickly.
Not out of fear — but of self-preservation.
She didn't want him to think she was waiting for him. Still clinging to something that never had a name.
But temptation is a stubborn thing. And curiosity has a pulse of its own.
So she glanced back.
Just once.
Expecting him to be gone. Expecting the moment to pass unnoticed.
But he wasn't gone.
He was staring at her.
Not a quick look. Not an accident.
A gaze.
Long. Steady. Unreadable.
Ness turned away again, pretending to be absorbed in her phone, pretending she hadn't felt her world tilt beneath her feet.
She didn't look back until she was sure the moment had passed.
And when she did, he was gone —
Already inside.
Already waiting for the elevator.
Already elsewhere.
But something had shifted.
He had looked.
And in that quiet exchange — no words, no gestures, no promises — something old flickered back to life.
A tiny spark beneath the ash.
A thread between two people who never got the chance to be anything, yet somehow remained something.
She didn't know what it meant.
Didn't dare hope.
But that night, she rode home with a thousand questions tucked between her ribs —
And a small, aching smile she didn't bother to hide.
Because after all the silence,
After all the waiting,
After all the prayers spoken into nothing —
He was there.
And he had looked.