Confirmation Bias
796 Words
Mara sees him again on Thursday.
She doesn’t mean to.
She tells herself she’s taking a different route home to avoid construction, but the truth is she chose the longer walk because it passes the park. Because it passes the corner.
Because she needs to know whether Tuesday was coincidence or something else.
The sky is low and grey, the kind that presses the city flat. People move faster in weather like this. Heads down. Hoods up. Everyone trying to outrun the day.
Mara slows instead.
She spots him before her body reacts, which feels like progress. He’s on the opposite sidewalk this time, walking at an unhurried pace, hands loose at his sides. Same dark jacket. Same unremarkable presence.
Different behaviour.
He’s counting steps.
Not obviously. Not with his lips. But there’s a rhythm to him that doesn’t match the crowd. He stops exactly where the bus shelter casts its shadow. Waits. Moves again when a group of pedestrians passes.
Mara’s pulse quickens.
She tells herself she’s projecting. That anything becomes ubiquitous the moment you become aware of it.
Confirmation bias. She knows the term. She’s used it before—gently, reasonably—when friends spiralled.
She crosses the street.
Her shoes echo too loudly. She hates that.
As she draws closer, he glances up—not at her face, but past her. Toward the shopfront windows behind her. Reflections again.
This time, he doesn’t look away.
They pass each other close enough that Mara can smell his cologne. Clean. Neutral. Something chosen carefully not to linger.
Her shoulder tenses, waiting for contact that never comes.
She keeps walking.
Five steps.
Ten.
She stops.
So does he.
The city continues around them—cars, voices, movement—but the space between them feels held, deliberate.
Mara turns.
He’s standing near the curb now, watching her openly. Not aggressive. Not curious.
Assessing.
“Do you need something?” she asks.
Her voice sounds steadier than she feels.
“No,” he says. His tone is even, almost polite. “Do you?”
The question lands wrong. Too balanced. Too prepared.
Mara swallows. “You were at the park the other day.”
He tilts his head slightly, considering. “Was I?”
She utters the words, "You were watching reflections," before she can stop herself.
A flicker passes through his expression. Something quick and sharp—interest, maybe.
“That’s observant,” he says.
Mara’s stomach tightens. “People watch reflections when they don’t want to be seen watching.”
He smiles then. Just a little.
“Or when they want to see what’s behind them without turning around.”
They stand there, suspended.
A car horn blares nearby, breaking the moment. When Mara looks back at him, the smile is gone.
“You should be careful,” he says.
“About what?” she asks.
“Patterns,” he replies. “They can convince you of things that aren’t true.”
Her breath catches. “And occasionally they reveal to you the truth.”
He studies her for a long moment. Then he nods, as if she’s passed some invisible test.
“Take care, Mara.”
Her name hits like a physical blow.
“How do you—”
But he’s already walking away.
Mara stands frozen, heart hammering, watching him disappear into the crowd as if the space simply opens for him.
When she finally moves, it’s not toward home.
She walks straight to the nearest café, sits at a corner table, and pulls out her notebook with hands that refuse to steady.
She writes everything down.
Every word. Every pause. Every inflection.
At the bottom of the page, she underlines one sentence so hard the paper thins.
He knew my name.
Mara closes the notebook.
For the first time since this began, she considers the possibility she hasn’t been observing a pattern at all.
She’s been stepping into one.
And it already knows her shape.
The notebook isn’t a diary. Mara is very clear about that. Diaries are confessional. Emotional. They distort reality by prioritizing feeling over sequence.
Her notebook is correct.
She writes only what can be verified. Time stamps. Locations. Direction of movement. She doesn’t speculate. Speculation comes later, if it’s earned.
This is what makes her different from the people the police usually talk to. They remember impressions. She remembers order.
It isn’t that she doesn’t trust authority. She just understands its limitations. Systems are built to manage volume, not nuance. They don’t like anomalies. They sand them down until they fit.
Mara has learned that if something refuses to fit, you don’t force it. You preserve it.
She closes the notebook and feels a small, unfamiliar satisfaction. Not relief. Something steadier.
Validation doesn’t have to come from outside anymore.
- Writer
