The obsession is escalating. The thought doesn’t scare me. It feels like coming home.
I skip the bar after work. I don’t need a drink, I don’t need a fight. My new addiction is her.
I go straight to her street.
I find a spot on the steps of a boarded-up brownstone across the road and I wait. It’s pathetic, I know. I’m a fucking stalker, but I don’t care. I need to understand her, and to understand her, I need to watch her.
An hour passes. The sun bleeds out of the sky. Then, I see her.
She’s walking down the street, her pace steady, her gaze fixed on the pavement in front of her. She’s wearing different clothes—a dark hoodie, jeans—but she has the same aura. A bubble of stillness in the chaos of the city. She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t seem to notice the world around her. She’s a ghost, gliding through a world she refuses to be a part of.
She disappears into her building.
I stay for another hour, just staring at the front door she walked through. I learn nothing and everything.
I do it again the next day, and the next. I confirm her routine. I’m not here when she leaves, but she comes back just after five. She carries a tote bag filled with what I assume are books. She never stops for coffee. She never has headphones in. She is completely, utterly alone. Aria is a creature of rigid, solitary habits.
On the fourth day, I decide I’ve waited long enough. Watching isn’t enough anymore. I need to talk to her. I need to get another reaction.
I time it perfectly. I see her turn the corner onto her block, a few minutes after five. I cross the street and slip into her building right behind a guy struggling with his groceries. Thelobby is clean, sterile, and smells like lemon-scented cleaner. It doesn’t suit her at all.
I head for the stairwell. The air immediately changes. It’s dusty, quiet, and filled with the same sense of decay and waiting as the alley. This is her place.
I wait on the landing between the fourth and fifth floors, hidden in the shadows. I can hear her footsteps, light and steady, coming up the stairs. They don’t rush. They don’t drag. They are as measured and precise as everything else about her.
She reaches the fourth-floor landing and turns to start up the next flight.
Then she sees me.
Aria freezes, one foot on the first step, her hand on the railing. The tote bag hangs from her shoulder. Her face is a mask of absolute stillness, but I see the subtle shift in her eyes, the pupils widening, the recognition, the fear.
Bingo.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, my voice echoing in the enclosed space. I don’t smile. I want her to feel the full weight of this.This was not an accident. I am here for you.
She doesn’t respond. Her knuckles are white where she’s gripping the railing. She looks from me to the stairs leading down, calculating her escape route.
I take a step down, blocking her path. “Don’t,” I say, my voice soft. “Don’t run.”
“What do you want?” she asks. Her voice is a low whisper, but it’s steady. I have to give her that. She’s terrified, but she’s holding it together.
“To talk,” I say, taking another step down. I’m only a few feet from her now. I can see the faint, frantic pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. I want to put my thumb there. I want to feel it.
“We have nothing to talk about,” she says, her eyes darting around, looking for an exit that doesn’t exist.
“I think we do,” I say, leaning against the wall, making my posture casual, non-threatening. It’s a lie, and we both know it. “I think you and I are connected, Aria. You’re not afraid of the right things. You see a monster bleeding in an alley, and you stand your ground. I’m standing here, clean, and you’re terrified. Why is that? Is it because you know, deep down, that I’m the right kind of monster for you to fear?”
Her chin lifts, a flicker of defiance. “No.”
“Liar,” I whisper, and the word hangs between us. I take the final step down so I’m standing on the same landing as her. She flinches, but holds her ground. She smells like old books and cold air. “Your heart is beating so fast I can practically hear it from here. Why? I’m not bleeding, I’m not starting a fight. I’m just… talking to you. Why is that so scary?”
I’m cornering her, not just physically, but mentally. I’m asking the questions I know she doesn’t want to answer. I’m forcing my way into her quiet, empty world.
She just stares at me, her face pale, her eyes huge and dark. She’s trapped, and in the depths of her eyes, I see something new. It’s not just fear. It’s something else, something hot and sharp.
Anger.
It’s a tiny spark, but it’s there. It’s more beautiful than the fear ever was.
