Adrian returned to the coffee shop on instinct.
He had relapsed—fallen back into an addiction again. One he refused to call what it was, choosing instead to justify it in quieter, more acceptable terms.
Same street. Same stretch of pavement. Same seat across the road, where the angle gave him everything without drawing attention. The city moved the way it always did—everyone on their own journey. Cars passing. Doors opening and closing. People drifting in and out of the shop with their cups and conversations.
Everything was familiar.
Except her.
She wasn't there.
At first, he didn't question it. Routines bent sometimes. Days blurred into each other. People ran late or swapped shifts. It meant nothing. He told himself that as he checked the time once… then again.
The door opened. Someone else stepped out. Someone laughing at conversations he heard nothing of. Someone scrolling on their phone.
Not her.
He stayed longer than usual that day, watching the light inside the shop change as the afternoon dragged on—as if hoping, praying, she would show up. He noted the staff behind the counter, the rhythm of their movements, the way the register chimed at intervals he could now predict.
He imagined her standing there instead. A bun, probably. An apron tied neatly around her waist. An expression that welcomed customers, that gentle smile she always wore.
She was always smiling.
He wondered what it would feel like to see her showing other emotions—sadness, anger, tears. He wanted to see that.
Her absence pressed against the pattern like a flaw.
The next day was the same.
And the one after that.
No familiar figure behind the counter. No quiet movements. No pale clothing blending into the background. The routine he'd memorized no longer aligned. Time passed, but nothing clicked into place.
That was when irritation set in—not sharp, not explosive. Just enough to unsettle him.
Patterns didn't vanish without reason.
By the fourth day, he stopped coming to the shop and started thinking beyond it. He did some digging, as usual, and realized she had taken a break because of exams.
Exams, he reasoned.
The academic calendar explained the shift easily enough. Students disappeared during this period, swallowed by deadlines and libraries and quiet buildings that stayed lit long after the sun had laid to rest.
The realization should have settled him.
At least now he knew where she was. And why.
But it didn't.
Campus was different. Crowded in a way streets weren't. Too many eyes watching. Too many variables. Attention scattered in careless directions. He pictured her there—alone, moving between classes, sitting with her books, unaware of how easily focus could turn into fixation.
People noticed things when they had time.
And lately, she'd been giving them plenty of it.
The thought irritated him more than he expected.
The sudden urge to rip out the eyes of anyone who stared—or dared to look in her direction—rose uninvited. He dismissed it immediately.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was responsibility. His own way of looking out for her.
Someone had already crossed a line once—he knew that much. Silence didn't erase risk. It only disguised it.
Someone needed to be paying attention.
And if her routine had shifted, then so would his.
Back in his office, he made a few phone calls. Accepted a long-overdue proposal requesting him to give a lecture in his field—something he'd declined for months. The administrator sounded almost relieved when Adrian agreed, saying he looked forward to it.
A schedule was sent for the following Monday.
It wasn't ideal. But it was access.
He wasn't following her.
He was returning himself to the perimeter—where he belonged.
Elora was deep into exam mode.
Her surroundings didn't matter. What she wore didn't matter. Neither did how she looked. Her mind was fixated on finishing her slides before the exam date. This was her tenth visit to the library that week.
She took a seat close to the windows. She always did. It helped her focus. Helped her breathe.
Hours passed as she read, researched, and cross-checked materials her lecturers had assigned. Her workload had piled up—unfinished assignments, deadlines closing in.
She lost track of time.
When she finally checked her phone, it was past 6 p.m.
"Shoot, I'm late for dinner," she muttered, scrambling to pack her things.
In her haste, she didn't notice a sheet slip from her hand.
Not until she heard someone call her name—softly, but with a firmness she wasn't used to hearing on campus.
"Elora."
She turned.
A man stood a few steps behind her, holding up the paper. She glanced down at her arms, then back at him.
It was hers.
"Thank you," she said, taking it from him with a small smile before turning to leave.
She made it three steps before stopping.
Did he just say my name?
She turned back quickly.
He was gone.
No trace. No lingering presence.
Her chest tightened.
Why did he look so familiar?
Do I know him?
The questions crowded her mind all at once. She pushed them away and kept walking.
She didn't feel followed.
She felt… recognized.