He hadn't planned it.
That was the lie he told himself first—the one that arrived instinctively, fully formed, ready to protect him from the weight of intention. In truth, the moment had been rehearsed so many times in his mind that when it finally happened, it felt less like chance and more like recognition.
They met in the simplest way possible.
No dramatic collision. No charged silence. Just proximity turning into opportunity.
She stood close enough that he could hear the soft exhale of her breath, could sense the warmth of her presence without touching it. For a brief second, he hesitated. This—this—was different. Thought had always been safe. Observation had always belonged to him alone. Speaking meant exposure.
Still, he spoke.
Her name felt unfamiliar in his mouth, heavier than he expected. Saying it made everything real in a way watching never had. She turned toward him, surprised but not alarmed, her expression open in a way that unsettled him.
Up close, she was not the version he had constructed.
She was sharper. Quieter. More complex than the image he had polished in his thoughts. That realization should have grounded him. Instead, it thrilled him. Reality, he discovered, was far more consuming than imagination.
They exchanged words—simple ones. Ordinary ones. The kind that meant nothing on their own. Yet he listened as if each sentence carried hidden meaning, as if her tone held answers to questions she didn't know he'd been asking.
She smiled once. Briefly.
It was enough.
He responded carefully, choosing his words with precision, making sure his voice carried calm rather than urgency. He wanted to appear effortless, unaffected. He wanted to look like someone who belonged in the moment—not someone who had waited for it.
She didn't linger long.
That was the part that caught him off guard. The ease with which she stepped away, as if the exchange had been exactly what it appeared to be: a passing interaction. Polite. Forgettable.
He stood there after she left, the space she'd occupied still vibrating in his awareness.
Something had shifted.
Meeting her hadn't satisfied him the way he'd imagined. It hadn't completed the story he'd been telling himself. Instead, it opened a new ache—one sharper than distance, more demanding than silence.
Because now she wasn't just a figure in his thoughts.
She was real.
And real things, once touched—even briefly—had a way of demanding continuation.