They’ll never understand, but I don’t need them to.
I just need them to obey.
“Good.” I collect my helmet from my motorcycle a few feet away. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.”
No one argues.
I swing onto my motorcycle and kick it to life, the engine roaring beneath me. The sound drowns out the whispers, the stares, but not the ache in my chest that never goes away.
I pull out of the parking lot and head in the direction Priya’s car disappeared, gunning the engine, weaving through the scanttraffic. It doesn’t take long to find them because I know the route Priya takes after the pizza place, and that she drives Mina home first.
I’ve memorized every detail of Mina’s life. I know where her friends live, where she stops for coffee on Saturday mornings, the places she likes to shop. I know which bus she takes when Priya can’t drive her.
I spot the Honda three blocks ahead and ease off the throttle, letting the distance stretch between us. I ride three cars back. Just close enough to see her silhouette in the rear window but far enough that she won’t hear the bike.
I’ve gotten good at this. I’ve had four years of practice.
The first year was hard. I wanted so badly to approach her, to beg, to make her understand that I never meant to scare her. That I would never hurt her. That everything I did, I did because I love her.
I nearly broke several times. The worst moments were when my father beat me, and I couldn’t go to her for comfort. He used his belt on my back until I couldn’t stand. I’d spoken out of turn and embarrassed him in front of a capo. I don’t even remember what I said, but I remember crawling to my room afterward, my shirt stuck to my skin with blood, and all I could think wasMina. I wanted to limp upstairs to her. Let her see what he’d done. Let her tend to me with her soft hands and her soft voice, and have her hold me and tell me it would be all right.
But I couldn’t, because she was afraid of me now, and if I showed up at her bedroom door bleeding and broken, she’d only be more afraid.
So I lay on my bedroom floor with my face pressed into the carpet and taught myself to need nothing. No one.
Except her. Always her.
It was agony, but I learned to follow her from a distance. To watch without being seen. To be near her without her knowing.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough. I’ve been testing making myself more visible to her, because time is running out. She’ll move into her own place sooner or later, and the little control I have over her life will slip out of my grasp. I expected her to become suspicious of me, but not right away. It’s disappointing how little she trusts me.
The Honda turns onto our street, and I hang back, pulling to the curb a block away. I watch her climb out of the car, wave goodbye to her friends, and walk toward the mansion’s side entrance. The one that leads into the garden so she can enter the house through the kitchen and climb the stairs to where she and her mother live.
She pauses at the gate, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think she’s going to look back and see me sitting here in the dark, watching her like I’ve done a hundred times before.
But she doesn’t. She just pushes open the door and disappears inside.
I pull into the mansion’s grounds, but I don’t go inside. Instead, I park my bike by the garage and walk through the darkened garden to find my usual spot. The stone bench beneath the oak tree.
I can see her window from here. Just barely. A warm yellow glow in the night.
She’s probably changing out of her clothes. Maybe taking a shower. Getting ready for bed. I imagine her moving through her small room, brushing out her dark hair, crawling under the covers. Falling asleep with no idea that I’m out here in the dark, just like I was last night. Just like I’ll be tomorrow night.
I did everything right tonight, I reassure myself. I can control myself. I’m not the boy who terrified her four years ago.
The light in her window goes out.
I stay on the bench, staring at the darkened glass, feeling the loneliness seep through my jacket and into my bones. I’ve waited four years. I can wait a little longer.
But God, it’s getting harder.
I don’t know when I’ll hold her again, but I know one thing for certain: this time, I’ll never let her go. She’s mine. She’s always been mine. And someday soon she’ll realize this too, once and for all.
Three blocksbehind her on my motorcycle. Close enough to watch, but far enough to stay invisible. The usual distance.
Mina is walking slowly today, her schoolbag slung over one shoulder, her face tilted up toward the trees. Watching the birds, maybe. Or the clouds. She does this sometimes, gets lost in her own world, and drifts through the streets like she’s dreaming.
The corner of my mouth quirks in a smile. I love watching her like this. Unguarded. Soft. The version of Mina that exists when she’s not aware of anyone looking. The Mina that belongs only to me.
