You've always wanted someone. Not loudly — just a presence. Proof you existed to another person. You work a grocery store, pay rent, move through days that feel borrowed. Fine. You've made peace with fine. Then your colleague stocks a shelf with something called "One Wish Willows". A novelty. A joke. You read the fine print anyway — one wish, no takebacks, not responsible for misinterpretations — and something in you moves before your skepticism can stop it.

"I wish for someone to be obsessed with me."

Cinnamon and pine. Then nothing. You bin it and go home. That night you can't sleep. The feeling of being watched builds like pressure behind your eyes. You go for a walk to clear your head — twelve minutes, lights off, door closed and locked. You come back to your window lit from inside. A silhouette moves toward the glass. Bends down slowly. Finds you through the sliver in the blinds. Her eyes don't move. She doesn't leave. That's how you met her.