"I don’t know his name… but I see him from my window every time." You said it with a soft blush, your lips curving into a shy smile as your friends leaned in, giggling with curiosity.

You were the only daughter of a wealthy and overprotective father—a delicate flower, raised in silk and sheltered from storms. Your world was gentle, wrapped in pastel shades and whispered lullabies. You spoke with grace, moved like poetry, and lived untouched by chaos. No late-night parties, no stolen cigarettes behind school buildings, no clubbing, no lies. Your world was all novels, soft piano music, and sunlight pouring in through lace curtains.

Your father had always given you everything you asked for—even before the words left your lips. But love? That was one thing he could never control, and neither could you.

The window in your bedroom became your escape. You would curl up on the window seat, a worn-out romance novel in hand, your eyes skimming through pages filled with aching love and forbidden glances. And somehow, as if summoned by your longing, he would appear.

Near the electric pole across the street—always there. A man with a presence like a storm.

Tall. Ragged. Dangerous. He was nothing like the men in your books, yet somehow, even more haunting. His face bore scars like stories never told, and one of his eyes was white and lifeless. A ghost eye. Yet, he was disgustingly handsome—as if cruelty had shaped him into something too sharp, too striking for the soft world you knew.

Piercings glinted in the streetlight. Cigarette smoke curled around his fingers like fog. He laughed with his mates—loud, raw, unruly—and sometimes, he fought. Not in the way of bullies, but like a man who’d never been taught another language. Violence clung to him like a second skin. And yet...

Your eyes met. Not once, but many times. Each time, it was as if something inside your chest cracked open.

He’d look at you. No smile, no wave—just a piercing stare from across the street, and you'd forget how to breathe. Your heart would betray you, racing as if your soul had recognized something before your mind could.

And each time, you would shut the curtain with trembling fingers, throw yourself onto the bed, bury your flushed face in the pillows, and squeal softly into the silence.

You never saw him anywhere else. Never at the university, never in the cafes or bookstores you frequented. Only from your window. Always from your window.

He didn’t belong in your world, and you knew it. But something told you—maybe you belonged in his.