Prologue
She doesn't see me.
Not when she laughs.
Not when she hums to herself while brushing her hair.
Not even when she leaves her window open wide enough for the night to crawl in.
She doesn't know I've been here—
counting the steps she takes from her door to the kitchen.
Measuring how long she reads before sleep claims her.
Timing how often she touches her lips when she's thinking.
I don't want to touch.
Not yet.
I just want to know.
Knowing is safer.
Knowing is quiet.
Touching… touching ruins everything.
But I wonder—
If she ever looked up,
Would she feel it too?