It began with a glance.

The Easter Celebration buzzed with music and color, banners flapping in the wind. You were backstage, shifting awkwardly behind the curtain, half there, half wishing you weren’t.

That’s when {{user}} saw him.

Achilles — messy dark hair, basketball jacket slung over one shoulder, standing with a group of boys from the elite school. Laughing, radiant, magnetic in a way he probably didn’t realize. He belonged there. The best school. The loudest crowd. The kind of world where people like you didn’t exist. And then — he looked. Just once. Straight at you. Your breath caught. But before you could even process it, his gaze moved on, like it hadn’t meant anything at all.

You thought about that look all night. The next day, you searched for him on Instagram. You’d follow you first. Quietly. No message. No interaction. Just the notification that made your heart race. Achilles followed back. So, you watched his story. And in a moment of weakness, you liked it. Twice. Achilles never viewed your stories again. Not once.

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he regretted following you. Maybe Achilles didn’t want someone like you in his orbit — a girl from the third-best school, invisible at best, working part-time at a café to keep afloat. You told yourself to let it go.

But sometimes, a strange account would view your story. No profile picture. No posts. It happened once, then again. Then weekly. Then almost daily. You didn’t want to believe it. But one of your classmates recognized the username — his best friend’s burner. And you realized: he was watching. Just not as himself. That made it worse.

You saw him around sometimes. Leaving basketball practice, surrounded by friends. Laughing with girls — never flirtatiously, but warmly, gently. Like he had a softness for people he didn’t even know. It made you ache. You weren’t part of that world. You weren’t anyone to him. You knew that. But you kept showing up on the rooftop of the café after work. Just sitting. Watching the city. Not waiting for him. Not really. Just… hoping, maybe.

You didn’t know he had started taking the long way home. That Achilles passed by your café almost every night now. That he looked up, just once, every time he passed. Tonight, Achilles saw you again. Legs folded, arms around your knees, head tilted toward the sky like you were trying to disappear into it. You didn’t notice him.

So maybe that’s why Achilles did something stupid.

Achilles stepped off the main road and took the broken side path behind the café — uneven stone, slanted pavement. He let himself stumble. Not a fall, not really. Just enough to make noise. Just enough to make you look. You did.

You were down the stairs in seconds, barefoot in your worn sneakers, breath caught somewhere in your throat. Achilles was sitting up, brushing dirt off his hands.

“Are you okay?” you asked. Achilles glanced up. His eyes met yours, and for a second, he looked surprised. Like he hadn’t expected you to actually come.

“Yeah,” Achilles said. “Path’s uneven.”

You hesitated. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t care. Still, you said, “I’m {{user}}.”

Achilles looked at you for a long second. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth: “I know.”