The cigarette dangled between his fingers. Unlit. Forgotten.
He didn't smoke, not really.
He just liked the weight of something between his fingers. Something that gave his hands a reason to tremble without looking weak.
From his balcony, the world felt… manageable. Small. A street with rusted gates, cracked walls, flickering lights, and silence — the kind of silence that made people sleep with their doors locked and dreams buried.
And yet, she was out there.
Standing still. A few houses down.
He'd seen her before. Passing glances. A flutter of white curtains. Her silhouette through rain-fogged windows. But tonight — she looked back.
No mask. No fear. No shy flinch.
Just those eyes. Clear. Quiet. Heavy.
He leaned slightly forward, studying her. Not with hunger. Not with charm.
With something colder. Calmer.
Curiosity.
Because she didn't look like she belonged here — not on this tired street, not in this dying city. There was something about her posture… like she was holding back entire hurricanes.
And for a second — a sharp, unfamiliar second — he almost wanted to ask if she was okay.
But he didn't.
Because words were dangerous. And if he spoke, he knew she'd listen.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
So he just stood there. Let her look. Let her wonder. Let her think she'd caught him off guard.
When she disappeared into her room, he stayed a little longer. Not because he was still watching.
But because he didn't know how to stop.
The cigarette never touched fire that night.
But something inside him did