I can see you

Chapter 8

(ROSY'S POV)

Three years. That's how long it's been since Edward looked at me. Since he touched my hand, passed me a café menu, smiled like I meant something. Since he gave me that fake number.

Three years since I stood in my room, holding his sketchbook like a wounded animal, replaying every moment of our meeting like a looped dream, trying to decide if it meant anything at all-or if I was just... nothing.

People talk about healing like it's a process. A climb. A direction. But grief isn't a ladder. t's a room. A sealed one. And if you're not careful, you start decorating it. Making it home.

He graduated and got a new job in a different City. I told myself I was moving on. I deleted his contact. Changed house and cut my hair.I Threw out the stolen sketchbook Or at least I tried to throw it away. I even stopped waiting for texts that would never come. But I never stopped watching. No matter How much I tried I couldn't.

It started small. I found a part-time job a few blocks from where I heard he'd relocated. A university photography department assistant. Casual and coincidental. Nothing suspicious. Then, once a week, I'd walk by the bookstore near campus.

Just walking. Just passing. Until one day, I saw him.His back was turned when I saw him for the first time in years. It still hit me like a car crash. The slope of his shoulders, the fall of his hair, the way he tapped the table twice before opening his sketchbook like a nervous tic he'd never shake. Edward. Older. Colder. But more devastatingly magnetic. He didn't see me or if he did, he didn't react. He's beautiful golden eyes remained impassive.

felt the breath leave my chest in one violent sweep. He hadn't changed much. Maybe older. Sharper around the eyes. His presence still felt heavy, like he was taking up more space than his body should allow. I watched from across the street, behind a foggy café window.

I told myself it would be just this once. It wasn't. But after that, I kept coming. Every Friday, the same bench across the street and the same coffee I never finished.

Always him.

He went in like it was ritual. Same time and same stride. He still carried a sketchbook. Still leaned on the window table in the back corner. Sometimes he sketches and sometimes he reads. Sometimes he just stares at the blank page like it's mocking him. But he didn't draw. Not always. Sometimes he just stared at the page like it hurt to touch it. Sometimes he watched people too closely. And sometimes... he looked toward the glass. Right at me. Or maybe not directly at me, never quite but close enough that I flinch.

I always look away first. I always leave first.

But when I'm back in my apartment, I replay it. Frame by frame. Like I'm editing the version where he sees me-where he stands, crosses the street, and says, I remember you. I never forgot. But that's not the story I'm living. That story doesn't belong to me.

I told myself I was imagining it. That I was just a ghost in his story but ghosts don't feel jealousy. And I felt it-when I saw him smiling at someone else. A girl with a bright laugh and red scarf. Her hand touched his wrist, and I thought I might tear my coffee cup in half.

I wasn't supposed to care. I wasn't supposed to watch him anymore but there I was, trembling behind a rain-speckled window like the past had teeth. I didn't contact him. I didn't have the right. He'd already made it clear I was a mistake. But I that didn't meant I have to give up.

I've told myself so many versions of the truth. He forgot me. He never cared. He used me for a little entertainment. He lied because he was scared. Because he knew what I was. Because he didn't want to love someone broken.

And maybe I am broken.

But I remember what it felt like when he looked at me that day in the alley-like I was a puzzle he already knew how to solve. That was real... maybe. It had to be.

Last week, I followed him after he left the bookstore. I didn't follow him far, but just enough to see where he went. A routine maybe. A path. He cut through a back alley and didn't even hesitate. It was like he still walked the shadows on purpose. For some reason it made me ache.

I used to believe that if I watched him long enough, I'd understand him. But the more I watch, the less I know.

One night I stayed late, long after he'd disappeared down the street. I sat on the bench, staring at the empty bookstore window, when something sharp struck the edge of my thoughts. A feeling like I wasn't alone. I turned, heart sprinting. But no one was there. Just the alley. Just the dark.

Still, I walked home faster than usual and locked my door twice. I left the hallway light on that night.

That same night, I had a dream about the girl in the sketchbook. Me-but not. She was smiling this time. A cracked, strange smile. Like she knew something I didn't. She said:
"He didn't forget you. You just forgot what you are."

I woke up sweating. I didn't scream. I never scream. I opened the drawer ans took out the sketchbook I said I'd thrown away. The page was still there.

The girl curled in the corner of the page. The one that looked like me. Her eyes seemed darker than before. I whispered to her, "Am I making all this up?"She didn't answer.

Of course she didn't. She's not real. But her smile looked newer. Like maybe she'd just heard something funny.

A few days ago, I found something strange online. I was digging through old art forums-just looking, just passing time-when I saw a thread with Edward's username. The old one he used when we first met. Buried deep. Private gallery. Password protected. The password was our café's name. The one with the cats. Inside: hundreds of sketches. All women. Dark hair. Downcast eyes. Sad mouths.

One had my name under it. Another said: "Riya." I closed my laptop so hard I thought I broke it. I didn't open it again for days.

I think... I think he still remembers me. But I don't know if that's comforting or terrifying because part of me still wants him to save me but another part of me wants to watch him burn.

---
Today, I did something I swore I wouldn't. I walked into the bookstore. Not to stalk. Not to scheme. Just... to see. He was there.The same table and the same sketchbook. He didn't look up. Didn't even flinch. I told myself that meant he didn't notice. But maybe that's exactly what he wanted me to believe. I left without buying anything. Without saying a word.

Now, I sat on my floor, the sketchbook in my lap. I traced her outline with my finger-the girl that might have been me. I whispered again, "What am I to him?"

And for the first time, I thought she whispered back. Not an answer.
Just a warning: You're Delusional.

But delusions don't bleed, and I swear-I saw tears in her eyes.