I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.
Not his face — that would have been too easy. It was his presence that followed me. The quiet certainty in the way he stood. The calm in his voice when everything inside me had been shaking.
You should be more careful.
The words replayed in my head over and over, not as a warning, but as a statement. Like he wasn't concerned about the fall itself — only about what it revealed.
I lay on my side, staring at the faint glow of the city through the thin gap in the curtains, my thoughts spiraling in circles I couldn't control. The apartment felt too small, too quiet. Every sound seemed amplified — the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sirens, the soft tick of the clock on the wall.
I pressed my palm against my chest, trying to slow my breathing.
This was stupid.
He was a stranger.
A moment.
A coincidence I had already given too much power.
And yet, the more I tried to dismiss him, the heavier the memory became.
The way he had looked at me when I almost fell.
Not surprised.
Not concerned in the way people pretend to be.
But attentive. Focused. As if he'd been watching long before I lost my balance.
I rolled onto my back, exhaling sharply.
By morning, exhaustion won.
---
The next day arrived without mercy.
I dragged myself out of bed, my body heavy, my mind fogged. The mirror reflected someone I barely recognized — dark circles under my eyes, shoulders tense, lips pressed into a thin line I couldn't relax.
I showered quickly, letting the water run hotter than necessary, hoping it would wash the feeling away.
It didn't.
By the time I stepped outside, the city had already moved on. People rushed past me with purpose, conversations overlapping, phones pressed to ears. Everyone looked like they knew where they were going.
I didn't.
The café near my apartment was my usual escape. Familiar. Predictable. A place where no one expected anything from me beyond ordering and paying.
I pushed the door open, the bell chiming softly overhead.
And froze.
He was there.
Sitting at the corner table near the window.
The world didn't stop — it shifted.
For a moment, I wondered if I was imagining him. If my lack of sleep had finally blurred the line between memory and reality.
But then his eyes lifted.
And met mine.
My breath caught so sharply it hurt.
He didn't smile. Didn't wave. Didn't even change his expression.
He simply watched me.
Again.
My instinct was to turn around and leave. To pretend I hadn't seen him. To protect myself from whatever this was trying to become.
But my feet didn't move.
Instead, I stood there, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag, my pulse pounding in my ears.
He didn't rush me.
Didn't pressure the moment.
He waited.
That was the worst part.
I forced myself to breathe and walked toward the counter, my movements stiff, deliberate. I could feel his attention on me the entire time — not heavy, not aggressive, just… present.
As if he was aware of me in a way that didn't require constant proof.
I ordered my coffee, my voice steadier than I felt, and turned around.
He was still watching.
Not openly. Not like a man trying to be noticed.
But he hadn't looked away.
I took the table farthest from him, my back straight, my gaze fixed on the surface in front of me. I told myself to focus on the warmth of the cup in my hands, on the smell of coffee, on the ordinary rhythm of the room.
But my awareness refused to settle.
Minutes passed.
Then footsteps approached.
"May I?"
His voice was even lower than I remembered.
I looked up slowly.
He was standing beside my table, one hand resting casually on the chair across from me. Up close, he was taller than I'd thought, his presence filling the space without effort.
He waited for my answer.
I should have said no.
I didn't.
"Yes," I said quietly.
He sat down with controlled ease, as if this moment had already been decided. His movements were precise, unhurried. He placed his coffee on the table between us, his fingers steady.
Up close, I noticed things I hadn't before.
The faint line at the corner of his mouth, like he didn't smile often. The sharpness of his gaze, softened by something I couldn't name. The way his attention never drifted — not to the noise, not to the people around us.
Only to me.
"You left quickly last night," he said.
I stiffened. "I didn't realize I owed anyone an explanation."
"You don't," he replied calmly. "I was stating a fact."
Silence settled between us.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
That scared me.
"I didn't expect to see you again," I said.
His eyes flicked briefly to my hands, still wrapped around the cup, before returning to my face. "Neither did I."
That was a lie.
I didn't know how I knew, but I felt it in the way he spoke — measured, careful, like someone choosing which truths to reveal.
"You almost fell," he continued. "People tend to forget moments like that. They're embarrassing. Easy to push away."
"And you?" I asked before I could stop myself. "Do you forget?"
"No."
The word landed between us with quiet finality.
I swallowed. "Why?"
He leaned back slightly, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "Because moments like that tell you more about someone than hours of conversation."
I didn't respond.
Because a part of me knew he was right.
He seemed to sense the shift in me, the way my defenses wavered. His gaze softened — just a fraction — enough to feel deliberate.
"You looked like you were carrying too much," he said. "Long before you stumbled."
My grip tightened on the cup.
"You don't know anything about me."
"No," he agreed. "But I know what it looks like when someone is holding themselves together by habit, not strength."
I should have stood up then. Walked away. Shut this down before it dug its way under my skin.
Instead, I stayed.
"That's a dangerous assumption," I said.
A corner of his mouth lifted — not quite a smile. "Only if I'm wrong."
Silence stretched again.
I felt exposed in a way I couldn't remember ever feeling before — not because he asked questions, but because he didn't need to.
"What do you want?" I asked quietly.
He didn't answer immediately.
Outside, a car horn blared. Someone laughed near the counter. Life went on around us, unaware of the thin line tightening between two strangers.
"I want to understand why you looked relieved when you realized you didn't fall alone," he said finally.
My heart skipped.
"I didn't—"
"You did," he said gently. "Just for a second."
I looked away, my jaw tightening.
"That doesn't mean anything."
"Everything means something," he replied. "We just decide which things we're brave enough to admit."
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping softly against the floor. "I need to go."
He didn't reach for me.
Didn't stop me.
He simply watched as I gathered my things, his gaze steady, unreadable.
When I turned to leave, his voice followed me.
"My name is Elias."
I paused.
"I know," he added. "You don't owe me yours."
I hesitated only a second before walking out into the street, my heart racing, my thoughts tangled.
The air outside felt colder.
Sharper.
I told myself it was over.
That I wouldn't see him again.
That whatever connection I imagined was just exhaustion and coincidence colliding at the wrong moment.
But as I walked away, I felt it again.
That awareness.
That quiet certainty.
He wasn't following me.
He didn't need to.
Because somehow, impossibly, I knew this wasn't the end.
It was the beginning.
And I had the unsettling feeling that while I was still trying to understand what was happening to me…
He already knew.