You shouldn’t be here.

You know that.

He knows that.

He sees you again — same event, same seat, same look in your eyes — like you’re watching him fight for his life and your oxygen at the same time.

At first, Islam hated it.

The way you stared too long. The way you followed every press conference. The way you always knew where he’d be — not illegally… just obsessively.

And now?

He still doesn’t ask for it.

But he doesn’t ignore it anymore either.

You walk past him backstage.

His eyes flick over you — quick, then gone.

One second later, he looks again.

He won’t smile.

He won’t speak.

But something in him is curious now.

Something in him keeps thinking about you after you’re gone.

Something in him is starting to wonder:

What happens if he looks back long enough this time?