Linda hadn't planned to see Levi again. Their first meeting had been brief, strange, and oddly magnetic—but she'd filed it away as a passing moment. A flicker. Nothing more.
But the city had its own choreography.
Three days later, she spotted him at the café near her office. He was seated by the window, sipping something dark, reading a book she'd once loved and abandoned. He looked up. Their eyes met. No surprise. No smile. Just recognition.
She hesitated. Then walked in.
"Do you follow me?" she asked, half-joking.
He closed the book slowly. "No. But I don't mind being found."
They talked. Longer this time. About cities and silence. About books that hurt more than heartbreak. Levi listened like he was collecting pieces of her. Linda spoke like she was testing the air between them.
He was careful. Too careful.
She noticed how he never answered directly. How he deflected with charm. How his stories felt rehearsed. But she liked the way he made her feel—like she was the only person in the room worth listening to.
That night, she wrote again.
> "He's not honest. But he's present. And maybe that's enough."
She didn't know yet that Levi's presence was a strategy. That every encounter was a thread in a web she hadn't seen. She only knew that her heart was opening—and Levi was already inside.
And so began the second chapter of her myth. Not of love. But of illusion.