Lena didn't plan to memorize him.
It just… started happening.
Maybe it was the way he walked barefoot around his apartment, careful not to make noise even though no one else was home. Or how he hummed off-key in the shower—always the same three songs, like a broken jukebox stuck on "Sweet Caroline," some anime opening theme, and Hey There Delilah.
She didn't tell him she heard it every morning. She just smiled quietly into her mug of tea and kept it for herself.
That morning, Daniel had rushed out for a last-minute shift at the bookstore, apologizing as he tripped over his shoes and tossed a banana into his bag like it was a weapon. He kissed the top of her head on the way out.
She didn't stop smiling for ten minutes.
Now, the apartment was quiet, and Lena wandered like a cartographer in unfamiliar terrain. She wasn't nosy—at least, not technically—but she did find herself tracing the details.
There was a guitar in the corner, dusty and out of tune, with a bent pick stuck in the strings.
His fridge had three magnets: a cheesy souvenir from Chicago, a photo booth strip with his sister, and a crooked calendar with half the months crossed out in messy black ink. She noticed October wasn't. It was still blank. Wide open.
The bathroom shelf was full of contradictions: expensive cologne next to a nearly empty tube of toothpaste; acne patches tucked behind a luxury razor. She smiled.
She opened her notebook.
Field Notes: Daniel, specimen in natural habitat.
Hums like he's trying to summon ghosts.
Eats cereal like it's a ritual—two bowls, minimum, always in mismatched mugs.
Wears his sweaters too big. Claims they shrink in the dryer. They don't.
Reads books with dog-eared pages and underlines in pen. Sometimes adds sad little comments in the margins.
Talks in his sleep. Said "Lena" once. I pretended not to hear.
She closed the notebook quickly, cheeks flushing. What was she doing? Documenting him like a thesis?
But part of her knew: this was how she understood the world. Lena had always made lists—of fears, of plans, of people. It helped her feel in control.
And Daniel?
Daniel was starting to look like something she couldn't sort into a neat category.
When he came back that afternoon, rain-damp and smiling, she handed him a towel and tried not to stare.
"You reorganized the books by color," he said, mock-scandalized.
"It was hurting me," she replied. "You had horror next to romance. Red flags."
Daniel laughed. "You're lucky you're cute."
"Flattery won't fix your alphabet crimes."
As he walked away to change, she found herself watching again. The way his shoulders relaxed when he was home. The quiet breath he took before talking about his day. How he always turned the kettle on without asking if she wanted tea.
She wondered what kind of list he'd make about her.
But she didn't ask.
Instead, she kept writing in the margins of her mind.
Mapping him.
One heartbeat at a time.