I can see you

Chapter 4

                     (EDWARD'S POV)

I knew she’d call. Girls like Rosy always do.
They don’t scream. They don’t confront. They linger—quiet, loyal, pathetic in their faith. It’s almost sweet.

Three missed calls. Then silence. She gave up sooner than I expected. I watched the screen light up. Then go dark. Again and Again. By the third time, it didn’t even ring. Straight to voicemail. Good. She knows now.

The number wasn’t fake—not exactly. It was real. Real enough to ring. Real enough for me to watch her try but after the third call, I redirected it to voicemail. She’d think I disappeared. That’s how you turn curiosity into obsession. That’s what I wanted.

A flick of the thumb. That’s all it took to vanish from her world. But the funny thing is I didn’t vanish from hers. I knew she’d stay. I knew she’d watch. People like Rosy don’t leave. They orbit.

I saw her again the next day at the cafe.

She thought she was hidden behind the café window, hoodie pulled tight, hands buried in her sleeves like a child trying to disappear. But I saw her. I always do.

Next place I went is the book store I told her about. There I left the sketchbook on purpose. Stacked it just barely out of place—no price tag, no sticker. Just forgotten enough to look accidental but open enough to be tempting. And she found it. Of course she did. She’s been chasing pieces of me since the first day we met. Probably before that.

Inside were my favorite sketches.
Some abstract. Some real.
One of the knife, one of the alley, one of her. I spent extra time on that one. Not because it mattered but because I wanted her to know she mattered to me.

From across the street, I watched her flip through the pages. Her fingers trembled. Her breath slowed. She lingered on the portrait of herself like she couldn’t believe it. And then—just like that—she slid it into her bag. Didn’t look around. Didn’t hesitate.
Perfect. She’ll think it was a mistake.
She’ll think she stole something I never meant to lose.

But the truth is—I wanted her to take it. It’s not theft if it’s bait.

I developed new film last night. Candid shots. Some from the alley. Some from the bookstore. One of her in profile, light hitting her jaw just right. Another of her standing in line, clutching a book she’d never buy. One more—my favorite—of her reaching for the sketchbook. Her expression half hunger, half hesitation. The moment before surrender. She looked... beautiful and broken.

The wall is in the back room — locked, windowless, soundproofed. It used to be my darkroom. Now it’s hers. Or rather, mine. The Rosy Wall. Every photograph is hand-developed and cropped perfectly. Some caught in reflections, some blurry and accidental, or at least made to look that way. Most are in black and white. Easier that way. Cleaner and easier to forget they were taken without her knowing.

There’s one of her staring out a rainy window. One from the school courtyard, head tilted as she watches clouds like she’s praying. One of her hands pressed to her chest like something inside her hurt. And dozens more — candid, controlled, beautiful.

I rearranged a few. Moved her closer to center.

“There you are,” I whispered to no one. I used to take photos like this of the girls I planned to kill. But not her. Rosy’s different. Or maybe not. I honestly don’t know anymore. Maybe I keep them so I can remember that she’s real. That we both are. Or maybe I’m just trying to preserve her before I ruin her, too.

I keep telling myself this isn’t love. Not really. Love is what Roy gave her. Warm, Forgiving and honest. What I feel? It’s not warm. It’s cold and focused. A hunger I’ve carried since the day I peeled my mother’s blood-soaked hair off my face. I don’t want Rosy because I love her. I want her because she’s the one thing he touched that I can still control.

I don’t know what I want from her. Not really. Sometimes I think I want her to suffer the way I have. To bleed in silence and to beg for warmth from people who only offer frost.

Other times?

I think I want her to understand me , to see me the way no one else has. Not the cops or the therapists. Not even Roy. Especially not Roy. They always said he was the golden one. Bright smile, open heart. The kind of boy everyone trusted. He trusted her, too. Maybe that’s what bothers me the most. He trusted her—and he died.

But Rosy?

She’s still alive and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the dead... It’s that they don’t get to speak for the living. She’s smart. Smarter than she acts. She’ll find out soon the number was fake. She’ll be hurt but she won’t leave. People don’t leave someone they obsess over. They just... get quieter.

She’ll watch me now. From farther away. Maybe Less direct and more deliberate. And that’s fine because I prefer it that way.
There’s something sacred about being watched by someone who believes they’re invisible. Every stare is a prayer. Every glance is a confession.

And I collect those little devotions like film negatives—sharp, undeveloped, waiting to be brought to life.

I wonder what she’ll do next. Call again?Cry? Cut herself? Maybe she’ll sit in the dark holding the sketchbook like it’s proof she matters. Maybe she’ll lie in bed imagining the moment I handed her the number. Maybe she’ll dream about me.

I hope she does. Words are more dangerous than blades. And I want her dangerous. This isn’t just a game. It’s a record. One I’m keeping. One I’m curating. She thinks she’s the only one obsessed. But I’m just better at hiding it. For now.

Since she took the sketchbook. She’ll take more, soon. And then? She’ll take the fall.

---

I closed my laptop, slid the new negatives into the safe, and locked it with a quiet snap. Across the room, my phone lit up with a notification. Blocked call.

She’s still trying of course she is. She thinks she’s chasing a boy. She doesn’t know she’s walking into a museum. One where she’s already the final exhibit.