He doesn’t know I’m there. Or maybe he does — that flicker behind his eyes, the quick glance over a shoulder. The way his pace changes, just for a moment.

I watch him from a distance — a café corner, a passing bus window, a cracked reflection in a shopfront.

Sometimes I write another letter, slip it where he’ll find it — beneath a door, inside a book, taped under a park bench.

He picks it up, reads it, pauses. But he never looks around.

—

Last Tuesday, I followed him down the narrow alleys near the river. He stopped at the old bridge, staring at the water as if it held answers.

I stayed back, shadows blending with dusk.

A gust of wind lifted a loose page from his notebook — I caught it before it fell.

His handwriting — jagged, uncertain.

“The watcher watches, but who watches the watcher?”

I smiled. He’s closer than ever. Closer to the edge.

—

Yesterday, I saw him at the library. He sat three rows away, eyes glued to a worn book on ancient myths. I almost spoke his name. Almost stepped forward.

But silence holds more power than words.

— We are two halves of a broken mirror — each reflection distorts the other.

I want to reach out. To break the spell. But fear or fate keeps us locked in this dance.

—

Tonight, the city hums low. Rain blurs the streetlights into smeared stars.

I watch him from a doorway. He stops, turns.

Our eyes meet — and in that split second, the world fractures.