The fourth time he came into the café, he didn't order anything.
He stood near the corner, hands in the pockets of his expensive coat, eyes calmly surveying the room. When they landed on me, they didn't move. I felt the stare long before I dared to return it—steady, cold, almost thoughtful. He didn't look at me the way men usually did. There was no hunger, no approval, no awkwardness. Just the quiet stare of someone already certain. That disturbed me more than anything else.
The little girl wasn't with him this time. I remembered how she always sat too still, never touching her drink, her face unreadable. I'd started wondering if she was mute or just incredibly well-trained. But now he stood alone. Watching. Studying. Unmoving.
I wiped the counter a second time just to keep my hands busy and glanced at the other barista for no reason other than to ground myself in the moment. When I looked back, the man was gone. No drink. No word. Just the faint trace of expensive cologne and that feeling of having been seen.
That night, I told Claire about him over cheap noodles and even cheaper laughter. "He gives serial killer energy," I joked, trying to shake the weight in my chest.
Claire raised an eyebrow, slurping loudly. "Serial killers don't wear cashmere," she said, like that settled it. She didn't get it. She never really felt things the way I did. Not tension. Not warning. Not the shift in the air that tells you when something in your life is about to change.
I didn't tell her about the dream I had. About the cage. About the sound of knuckles tapping glass, over and over, from a distance that felt too close.
At the bookstore the next day, while shelving paperbacks, I came across a title that made my hands freeze mid-air. How to Disappear Without a Trace. The words blurred for a moment as I stared at the cover. My fingers were trembling when I shoved it back onto the shelf.
He came into the café again that week—this time with the girl. She stood at the counter while he waited in the corner, watching as always. Her small fingers sorted through sugar packets silently, one by one, separating the pink ones like they meant something. I tried to be kind.
"You like the pink ones?" I asked.
She didn't look at me right away. When she did, her eyes were calm. Old. "I like it here," she said. "It smells like her."
I blinked. "Her?"
The girl tilted her head. "You."
I stared at her, at the man behind her who hadn't blinked once since walking in.
Customers stare. People notice. I'm not invisible anymore.
That's all it is.
Right?
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