Chapter 2: The Art of Watching
For the next six months, I was a ghost in her life. I knew her schedule better than she did. I knew she loved vanilla lattes, hated the smell of coffee shops (ironic), and always used a blue pen to highlight her notes. I was a master of silent observation, a connoisseur of her laughter from across the room.
I became her unofficial, unrecognized guardian. When she left her umbrella in the rain, I made sure it ended up on the lost-and-found desk, though I had walked back to fetch it. When she was stressed about finals, I left a sticky note with a smiley face on her locker, unsigned.
I was living in a bubble of blissful, painful anticipation. Every time she looked in my direction, my heart leaped, only to sink again when her gaze passed through me to someone else. I convinced myself that if I loved her enough, from afar, one day she would feel it. I thought that pure, unconditional love would bridge the gap