He never believed in fate.
Only in timing.
And control.
You don't wait for moments. You create them.
And today — he created their first one.
She came in exactly at 4:06 p.m.
Same café. Same table. Same tired steps.
The collar of her hoodie tugged high, hiding most of her jawline. Her eyes?
Still hollow.
He was already there.
Two tables away. Hooded too. Nothing about him screamed for attention. Just another face in the crowd — invisible by design. But his gaze never left her.
He had watched her make this walk on the feed countless times.
But this?
This was different.
Real skin. Real air.
Real closeness.
He could hear the way her chair scraped softly against the floor. The soft exhale when she sat down like the day was already too heavy.
He knew this version of her.
The "public" Elara.
Silent. Withdrawn. Hidden inside herself.
She kept her phone in her hands, not to scroll — but to anchor herself.
Like it was the only thing keeping her real.
He knew that feeling.
Too well.
He pretended to type something on his laptop, but his eyes tracked her through reflections. Windows. The surface of his black coffee. Anything that let him see without seeing.
And she… she didn't even notice him.
That hurt a little.
But it was okay.
He wasn't here to be noticed.
Not yet.
He was here to plant himself just enough.
Just enough for her to remember him without realizing she did.
When the barista miscalled her name "Elora?" she barely reacted.
She always ignored mistakes like that.
But he didn't.
He stood, coffee in hand, walked slowly toward the pickup counter. As he passed her, he tilted his head a little, caught her eye and said,
"Hey… they always get mine wrong too."
She blinked, caught off-guard. A split-second eye contact.
He smiled. Just barely. "Weird thing to say, I know. Sorry."
He moved on before she could reply.
No pressure.
No tension.
Just a passing interaction.
But it mattered.
Because for the first time in weeks… she looked at someone.
That night, on the feed, he watched her differently.
Her silence wasn't just noise now — it was echo.
Every little thing she did became layered.
She played the same song on repeat for two hours. A soft, sad melody with no lyrics. She didn't cry. Just sat still on the floor.
She opened a journal app. Typed a single line.
"Some stranger spoke to me today. I didn't hate it."
He exhaled shakily when he read it.
Victory never looked like confetti.
Sometimes, it looked like a single sentence typed at 12:47 a.m.
The next Tuesday, she came again.
He let her settle first.
Waited for the moment she reached for the sugar packets near the edge of her table.
She struggled to grab one.
He acted before she could give up.
Just slid one toward her across his own table barely enough movement to notice, but just enough that it landed near her fingertips.
She looked up.
He didn't.
No words.
Just the gesture.
She didn't say thank you. But she didn't pull her hand away either.
And later that night, she didn't type anything in the journal.
She just stared at the message he had sent from a hidden number days ago.
"You matter. Even if it doesn't feel like it."
And this time… she smiled again.
Observer Log 03: Entry Point
• Second contact initiated
• Verbal and non-verbal engagement
• Trust development: 7%
• Surveillance continued
• Physical presence established
He added a new folder.
Entry_Point: 001
And inside, the first clip was just… her breathing.
Sitting across from him. Doing nothing.
But alive.
By the third Tuesday, she noticed him before he did anything.
She didn't look directly.
But she paused when she passed his table.
That was enough.
Recognition. Familiarity. Seeds.
He was growing inside her reality now — piece by piece.
That day, he didn't speak.
He just stayed.
Presence was enough.
But when she left early, he noticed something strange.
She didn't walk home.
She took the alleyway behind the train station something she hadn't done since winter.
He switched cameras.
Tracked her steps.
Zoomed in.
There was no one following her.
But she walked like someone was.
Fast. Shoulders tense. Looking over her shoulder twice.
Then she stopped.
Leaned against the cold wall.
And covered her face.
For two full minutes.
Just breathing.
That night, she whispered something in her room. To herself.
"I think I'm being watched."
He froze.
No. No.
She couldn't know.
He checked the phone. No alerts. No glitches. Everything was working clean.
Still, the paranoia spread through him like smoke.
She could feel it.
But it wasn't fear in her voice.
It was… sadness.
"It doesn't scare me. Just… makes me feel less alone, I guess."
He sat there in the dark, headphones on, watching her fall asleep.
And for the first time, he asked himself:
What if she finds out?
What if she doesn't hate it?
He couldn't risk that.
Not yet.
So he adjusted.
Reset protocols.
Rewrote scripts.
Cleansed signals.
But even as he did… he couldn't stop himself.
From watching.
From caring.
From thinking about the way her lips trembled when she laughed alone.
From noticing the way her fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve when she got anxious.
From wanting to be closer.
And so, he created the next step.
An "accidental" text.
Same number as before — anonymous.
"You looked tired today. I hope the world isn't too heavy."
Delivered.
Seen.
Typing…
Then nothing.
No reply.
Until two hours later.
"Who are you?"
He smiled.