Narration: Ethan
People often say love happens when you least expect it.
Lies.
True love — the real kind, the one that burns until it consumes — is born in the details.
In the way she bites the tip of her pen when she's thinking.
In the way she reads the same sentence three times before understanding it, because her mind is somewhere else.
In the way she smiles at the barista, not noticing that he wants her.
I saw all of that.
And no one else did.
It was on a gray Wednesday, the kind where the sky looks just as exhausted as the people.
The bookstore was almost empty, as usual at that hour.
The sound of the rain hitting the awning was the only steady noise, drowning out the hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional jingle of the door when someone entered.
She walked in at 2:13 p.m.
Precise.
Luna.
She wore a mustard coat — a bold color, screaming for attention even though she didn't.
Her eyes scanned the aisles with subtle curiosity, as if searching for something she herself couldn't name.
I watched from the corner of my eye behind the counter, pretending to check a stack of orders.
She passed by the Russian classics section. Hesitated.
Stopped in front of Crime and Punishment, as if the title spoke directly to her.
I was intrigued.
When she picked up the book and opened it slowly, I realized she wasn't an ordinary reader.
She smelled the pages.
That… that was rare.
Authentic.
Intimate.
"You like Dostoevsky?" I ventured, voice low and steady.
She turned. Slowly. As if she hadn't expected to be addressed.
"I like the idea that he believed in suffering as a form of redemption."
Her eyes lingered on mine a second longer than necessary.
"But sometimes I think he just needed therapy."
I smiled.
"Maybe. Or maybe he wrote to avoid going completely mad."
She let out a soft laugh. Sweet. Unarmed.
And in that moment, I was sure: she was different.
Not like the others. Not like… the last one.
"Ethan." I extended a hand over the counter, trying to seem casual.
"Luna."
Her touch was brief but firm. Her hands were cold. And that gave me a strange sense of familiarity.
I watched her as she walked away with the book under her arm, refusing the paper bag with a simple nod.
Luna.
Name of a constellation. Of tides.
Of something that changes shape when night falls.
Narration: Luna
The sound of rain was always a relief. In the city, it muffled honking, shouting, even my own anxiety.
That afternoon, I just wanted to hide within words. And books had always been good hiding places.
The bookstore on Marquês Street felt like a relic trapped in time.
Few people knew about it, which was perfect.
When the clerk spoke to me, I almost jumped.
I didn't expect anyone to notice my silences, let alone mention Dostoevsky.
But he was… kind. Not in a forced way, but reserved. As if he weighed every word before saying it.
That was rare.
And his name… Ethan.
There was something about it that sounded familiar, even though I swore I'd never seen him before.
On the way home, I found myself rereading the book's dedication.
"For those who love in silence.
For those who live inside their own minds.
May they never get lost in other people's words."
It hadn't been there when I bought it.
I was sure.
But maybe I was getting paranoid again.
Wouldn't be the first time.
Narration: Ethan
She'll reread the dedication. I know it.
I left it to be found — like planting a seed and waiting.
Maybe Luna will think it was printed. Or left behind by another reader.
But she'll wonder. She'll feel that something was… directed.
And that's all I need for now.
I already know where she lives.
The delivery app from the café on the corner gave me her address on the forgotten receipt.
Too easy.
I also know she likes to write at night.
In a room lit only by the blue glow of her laptop, listening to Bon Iver or Florence and the Machine.
She writes about heartache, longing, and always ends with a semicolon — as if she never truly wants to finish.
I understand. I understand everything.
But it's not time yet.
She doesn't know she loves me.
She doesn't remember.
But she will.
Extra Scene – "At the Edge of the Light"
Narrator: Ethan
11:41 p.m.
The street was nearly empty, except for a cat crossing the wet asphalt and one lit window on the second floor of the beige building with the iron balcony.
Her window.
The curtains were partially closed, but not enough.
Never enough.
Luna trusted the city as if it weren't made of eyes.
But I see. I always see.
I stood on the other side of the street, behind a tree bent by time. The trunk hid almost all of me.
I'd done this before. Many times. But tonight… something was different.
Tonight, she was writing.
She always sat the same way: left leg folded on the chair, bare foot, restless fingers.
The lamp's light cast long shadows on the walls, and the glow of the screen painted her face in pale blue.
It was as if she were being written by her own story.
From my vantage point, I couldn't see the words, but I saw the gestures.
The pause to think.
The furrowed brow.
The slight smile when something seemed to work.
She was wearing that gray sweater with sleeves too long. The ends covered her fingers, like she needed something to protect her from the cold — or the world.
For twenty-three minutes, she remained still, immersed in creation. Then, she stood up.
And that's when my breath faltered for a second.
She passed by the window slowly, holding a mug.
Tea. Or wine. She had a habit of alternating.
When she stopped near the curtain and looked out — straight in my direction — I didn't move.
Didn't blink.
She didn't see me.
But she felt something.
Her eyes narrowed, like something disturbed her.
Then, she shook her head, laughed at herself, and closed the curtain.
She shut me out.
But it was too late.
I was already inside.
In the books, in her computer, in her headphones.
In every little habit I observed, memorized, and catalogued with near-religious care.
She sleeps on the left side of the bed.
Uses two pillows but only rests her head on one.
Sometimes leaves the window slightly open because she likes the cold breeze.
Is afraid to sleep in total darkness — always leaves a little hallway light on.
And sometimes, she talks to herself.
As if talking to ghosts.
Or maybe… to me.
It rained again. The water fell heavy, as if washing the city's sins — except mine.
I stayed for twenty more minutes, listening to the night's sounds, watching the shadow of her body lying behind the curtains.
Not out of desire.
But out of care.
There's someone new at her job. A guy.
I saw it on Instagram. He commented three times on her last photo. She replied. With an emoji.
I analyzed everything.
He's twenty-six, studies film, and has had two reports of harassment at college parties.
She doesn't know that.
But I do.
And I… I'm here.
I take care of her.
Even if she never says thank you.
Even if she never knows it was me who kept her from going out with him last week — by causing a small delay in the subway line, after an anonymous call about a suspicious package.
She thought it was a coincidence.
But I believe she heard it.
The city is full of noise, but the most attentive hear whispers.
Luna is safe.
For now.
But if that guy — or anyone — tries to cross the line between her and pain, between her and ruin…
I'll know.
Because I always know.