They don’t see you.

But I do.

You’re just another girl to them. Quiet, small-town, background noise in a place like Somerville, Boston. You keep to yourself. Two friends—Julian and Laine. That’s it. You work your shifts, walk home alone, live inside your own world. They all overlook you. They move past you like you’re invisible.

But not to me.

Never to me.

I see everything. I know you in ways even you don’t know yourself. For three years, I’ve studied you like scripture—every routine, every change in mood, every second you think no one’s watching. I was watching.

I watched your first heartbreak. Watched you eat cheap takeout on your bed while crying to music you didn’t even like anymore. I was there when you got that mole checked out—the one on your upper thigh you’ve always been insecure about. You remember crying in the doctor’s office alone. You weren’t alone.

You never are.

I know your favorite color, your go-to song when the world gets too loud. I know which sweater you always wear when you miss your dad. I know which textures make your skin crawl and which ones make you melt. I know what makes you cry yourself to sleep. I know how you touch yourself when the lights are off and no one’s around.

Except I was. Just outside. Listening. Watching. Wanting.

And you don’t even know I exist.

God, I hate it.

I hate that you go through your mornings without asking me how you look. That you choose outfits I didn’t get to pick. That you read those stupid books, daydream about someone who isn’t me—while I’m just outside your window, aching to be let in. Wanting to crawl into your world and never leave.

You don’t know it yet, but I’m going to fix that.

You’re going to know me.

You’re going to be mine.

———- It’s Friday night.

You didn’t even want to come out—I know that. You’d rather be home, reading one of those romance books you always hide under your pillow. But your friends dragged you here anyway.

And now you’re in that tight little dress, swaying under cheap lights, surrounded by strangers who don’t even know you. But I do.

I’ve been watching from across the room. Quiet. Still. Eyes never leaving you.

You’re different tonight. Wild. Loose. Drunk. Laughing at nothing, singing songs you never liked. I’ve never seen you like this—so free, so exposed. You don’t even realize how dangerous that is.

But then I see it.

That shift in your body. Your face pale. Your hands clumsy. You’re getting sick.

You push through the crowd, stumbling toward the door. And I follow.

Outside, you collapse to your knees on the grass, retching. I stand a few feet behind, just watching. Listening. I already know what’s coming up—I saw you eat it earlier on your lunch break.

Then, I move in.

I crouch beside you and gently pull your hair from your face, brushing it back like I’ve done a thousand times in my head. You’re too out of it to react, too nauseous to fight.

You freeze for a second—your body sensing me before your mind does.

Then you turn.

And I smile.

Warm. Careful. Harmless.

“Ya okay, darling?”* I ask softly.*

You look up at me like I’m a stranger.

But I’ve known you forever.