The first time I saw her, I should have walked away.
I should have looked at her once and let her disappear into the crowd, just another face in a city that swallowed millions whole.
But I didn't.
Instead, I watched her.
Her name was Arielle, soft like the way her lips curved when she whispered to herself, fragile like the way her hands clutched her books as if they were shields. She was sunlight, and I—
I was the shadow that clung too close.
For two years, I lived in silence. Following her. Learning her. Breathing in the rhythm of her life as if it were mine.
I knew the sound of her laughter—rare, quiet, almost as if she were afraid the world would punish her for it. I knew how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she read, how she stopped in front of flower shops but never bought a single bloom.
I knew the way her eyes dimmed whenever someone brushed too close, as if touch itself was a wound she couldn't allow.
I knew her pain. Even if she never spoke of it.
And because I knew, I decided.
She was mine.
Not today. Not tomorrow.
But soon.
This year would be different.
I would no longer just be the shadow in the distance, the silent presence trailing her from one street to another.
I would step into her life.
I would break the walls she had built, even if I had to bloody my hands against them.
She didn't know it yet, but her quiet world, her fragile existence, would never be the same again.
Because obsession is not love.
And yet—
For me, Arielle was both.
I watched her again that morning, standing by the corner café she always stopped at. The sun painted her hair gold, and she smiled faintly at the barista who handed her a cup. My chest tightened. That smile was mine. She just didn't know it yet.
I whispered her name, my voice drowned by the rush of cars and people passing by.
"Arielle…"
One day, she would turn at the sound. One day, she would answer.
And when that day came—
she wouldn't be able to escape me.