Before that scandalous night, I used to just watch and crave him like a bad habit.
I had fallen in love with him, my billionaire neighbour, ever since I was sixteen. It all started one merciless summer, I had gone to the beach with some girls from school. And that's when I saw him, as the sun lit over his muscular, broad shoulders and water sliding down him like light. One look at him and I ached inside.
His name was Ethan Reinhardt Hale.
Everyone including my mom called him Mr. Hale, addressing him with great respect or perhaps if I may say caution. They could call him anything they wished but to me he was temptation embodied, wrapped in tailored suits, gold wristwatches and a presence that made everyone feel timid.
I remember thinking he doesn't belong here. Not in this world and absolutely not with the rest of us.
After that day, it started.
Every morning, I would wake up just to watch his house. It gleamed, it was the brightest thing on our street, they even had flowers that actually stayed alive. I would sit on our lumpy, sagged couch by my cracked window peeking at him. During most weekends he would exercise, then by weekdays he would either be off to work or sitting up on his balcony with a mug or a cigarette. He was always calm.
Staring had become not just a routine but a ritual. He became my new found hobby. I told myself it was curiosity, but deep down I knew better. I was addicted. Unlike mine, his life felt inevitable, everything fits perfectly, even to the way he seemed untouchable or so I thought.
Mom worked late, always came home smelling like cleaning supplies or grease with her scrubs still clung to her. Dad… he was gone, not really. We just never spoke of him, though his anger still lived in the walls and fear instilled in me. Still scared of when doors slammed or when glasses broke. I used to wish he would just leave for real, maybe then I would care less.
Ethan was different, he felt safe, even from afar. The kind of man who didn't yell, break things, slam the door or hit when he was upset. He felt like the kind who would listen and stay.
But my mom felt different. When she caught me probably staring too long, she warned. Don't get any ideas about him Lyra, because men like that don't go for girls like us. They swallow you and spit you right out, her eyes filled with something sharper than tears, more like regret. Yet at the slightest opportunity, I would go back to watch.
Every time I saw him, I would imagine what it felt like to live in his world, waking up to warmth instead of a silence that made every flaw louder. To have someone look at you without noticing your mistakes.
Some nights, I would dream about him, not in a dirty way, at least not yet. Just dreams where he would ask me how I was or how was school and I would tell him I was doing just fine, even though in reality I wasn't. As stupid as those dreams sound, they were enough to make me wake up smiling. It wasn't really love, but I just didn't know what to call it.
Sometimes Mason, his son, would wave when I passed their sidewalk. He was kind, every teen girls crush, but somehow my gaze always went past him and back to his father. He was a distraction I could ignore.
At seventeen, I started painting again, but it was always his house with a silhouette of his perfect family and a sad girl standing by the side. Mom hated the paintings, she said it looked sad but she never asked why.
Then one day, he looked up. I don't know if he saw me. At first I stood still, my heart beating like a drum. Then I panicked and hid, when I peeked again, he was still staring. Had he always been noticing. No, maybe he didn't, different thoughts ran through my mind.
I knew it was wrong, but that didn't stop me. Watching him made me feel alive in my world that felt dead. It made me hide secrets I wasn't to share.
Well, that's how it all started— not with a touch, not even with words, just a girl chasing light that she could never hold.