I met Joe at a bookstore.

He was holding The Myth of Sisyphus, reading like the words might save him. “Sisyphus is lucky,” he said when I asked. “At least he has a purpose.” I told him, “Purpose is overrated.” We got coffee. Same Americano order. Same hunger in our silences.

Three weeks in, I knew who he was. Joe didn’t tell me, but people like him leave fingerprints everywhere. Beck. Love. Madre Linda. I read the stories.

I didn’t run. I stayed.

There was something beautiful in the way he watched me—focused, reverent. It didn’t scare me. It made me feel seen. So I played innocent. I smiled. I moved his books out of order. Lied about exes. I wanted to see if he’d crack. He didn’t. He studied me like I was a puzzle with missing pieces.

Then came Elise. A woman from his past. Too friendly. Too curious. One night, I followed her. Told her I was Joe’s sister. Told her he was fragile. She laughed. I smiled. She tripped. Her head met the curb. It was fast. Quiet.

Joe never asked what happened. We didn’t need words. He looked at me like I’d said I love you in his native tongue. We began collecting people—stories, passwords, patterns. Not always to kill. Sometimes just to understand.

We made rules. No kills without consent. No lies unless they’re beautiful. No watching each other without permission.

He slipped, once. Read my journal. Page 47: Maybe we’re not soulmates. Maybe we’re punishment. He packed a bag. I unpacked it. We argued in whispers. Loved like wolves.

Then we moved. New names. New city. Burned the journal. Buried the trophies. Tried to be normal. Failed beautifully.

Now, he hums while making breakfast. Pretends he isn’t reading my emails. I pretend I haven’t been watching the neighbor’s daughter leave every morning at 8:13 a.m.

We’re good at pretending. But beneath it, there’s something real. Not safe. Not sane. Real.

People see monsters. We see mirrors. And we like what we see.