SHE ONLY EXISTS WHEN I WATCH

Adrian Vale knew the woman across the street woke at 6:17 every morning. Not usually. Not approximately. Exactly 6:17. People believed most habits were random because they never watched long enough. Adrian watched. At 6:16, the apartment across from his was dark. Adrian sat beside his window, a cold cup of coffee in one hand and a black notebook on his knee. At 6:17, a light appeared behind the gray curtains. Adrian picked up his pen. 6:17 — Awake. A shadow moved inside the bedroom. Bathroom. Wardrobe. Window. Adrian knew the order. At 6:19, the curtains opened. Elara Voss appeared. Her dark hair fell loosely around her face. She wore a pale gray shirt. One sleeve covered her hand while the other was pushed above her elbow. Adrian wrote: Gray shirt. Left sleeve down. He watched her shoulders. Tense. Her movements were slower than usual. He almost wrote tired, but stopped. Tired was an assumption. Adrian preferred facts. Shoulders tense. Slow movement. Better. Elara left the bedroom. Adrian closed his notebook. For the next four minutes, there would be nothing to see. He carried his coffee into the kitchen. His apartment was almost empty. White walls. One table. One sofa. No photographs. No paintings. Everything had a purpose. The table was for eating. The sofa was for sitting. The bed was for sleeping. And the window— Adrian looked toward it. The window was for Elara. He disliked the thought. At 6:23, he returned to his chair. Elara entered her kitchen one minute later. She took a black mug from the cabinet. Correct. She filled the kettle. Correct. Then she reached for a glass jar beside the refrigerator. Adrian leaned forward. Sugar. He looked at the calendar. Monday. Elara only added sugar to her coffee on Thursdays. She opened the jar. One spoon. Then another. Adrian stared. Something uncomfortable moved inside his chest. It was not anger. It felt more like hearing a familiar song with one wrong note. He wrote: 6:25 — Sugar. Monday. Elara stirred her coffee. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Adrian's jaw tightened. She normally stirred five times. Elara lifted her mug and walked toward the window. Adrian leaned back. His window had reflective film. During daylight, seeing inside his apartment from across the street was almost impossible. Almost. Elara drank her coffee. Her gaze moved across the street. The bakery. The bus stop. Then upward. Adrian stopped breathing. For one second, Elara looked directly toward his apartment. Toward his window. Toward him. She blinked. Then turned away. Adrian slowly breathed again. Coincidence. Sixty-three meters separated their buildings. His window was one of twenty-four identical windows. She had no reason to look at him. She did not know him. Adrian repeated the thought. She does not know me. Adrian first noticed Elara three years earlier. It had been raining. He was working beside his window, repairing a damaged audio recording from a murder investigation. Somewhere beneath the sound of running water and static, a man had spoken. Adrian's job was to find the voice. He had been working for fourteen hours when movement across the street caught his attention. A woman stood behind a window. Elara. He did not know her name then. She was crying. Adrian looked away. Then looked back. Not because she was beautiful. Beauty was common. Something about her crying felt wrong. Elara did not wipe her tears. She did not hide her face. She simply stood there. Watching the rain. Adrian removed his headphones. For eleven minutes, he watched her. The following evening, he looked toward her apartment again. Curiosity. That was how he explained it. Three days later, he bought binoculars. Two weeks later, he knew what time she woke. One month later, he knew her work schedule. After three months, he knew where she bought groceries. After six months, he knew her name. Elara Voss. Thirty-one. Rare-book conservator. No public social media. No husband. No children. Adrian stopped searching after that. Mostly. There were boundaries. He believed in boundaries. Sometimes, the thought almost made him laugh. At 8:02, Elara left her apartment. Adrian was already dressed. Dark coat. Gray shirt. Black shoes. He waited three minutes before leaving. He was not following her. Following required keeping the target visible. Elara was already gone. Adrian was simply walking the same route. The distinction was weak. He accepted it anyway. The elevator was empty. Adrian watched the numbers decrease. Six. Five. Four. The light above him flickered. Three. Adrian looked at his reflection in the metal doors. For a moment, he thought someone stood behind him. A child. He turned. Nothing. A memory touched his mind. Smoke. A small hand holding his. Someone crying. Don't look away. Adrian blinked. The elevator doors opened. “Mr. Vale?” The receptionist watched him from the lobby. Adrian stepped out. “You have mail.” The man handed him two envelopes. One was from the electricity company. The second was black. Adrian studied it. No name. No address. No stamp. “Who delivered this?” “I don't know.” “What time did you find it?” “Around seven.” “Did you see anyone?” “No.” Adrian lifted the envelope closer to his face. There was a faint smell. Old paper. Books. “Can I see the security recordings?” The receptionist hesitated. “I'll need to ask the manager.” “Ask.” Adrian placed the black envelope inside his coat. He walked outside. Elara was gone. He knew where she would be. The underground station. Eight minutes away. Adrian started walking. The station was crowded. Adrian stood beside a concrete pillar. Twenty feet away, Elara was reading a red book. The Invention of Morel. Adrian recognized it. She had read the same book twice before. He opened a note on his phone. Third reading. Elara suddenly closed the book. Adrian frowned. The train had not arrived. She never stopped reading before the train entered the station. Elara looked left. Then right. Her gaze moved through the crowd. Adrian stepped partially behind the pillar. Elara placed the book inside her bag. Then she removed a black notebook. Adrian stared. She opened it. Wrote something. Then stopped. Slowly, Elara lifted her head. Her eyes moved toward Adrian's pillar. People passed between them. A businessman. A woman with a child. Two teenagers. Elara disappeared behind them. Then appeared again. Still looking in his direction. The station speakers announced the train. Wind rushed through the tunnel. Elara smiled. Adrian felt cold. It was not a polite smile. It was small. Private. Familiar. The train arrived. People moved forward. For three seconds, Adrian lost sight of her. When the crowd separated, Elara was gone. Adrian searched the platform. Nothing. Impossible. There were only two exits. His phone vibrated. Unknown number. A photograph appeared. Adrian opened it. His body became still. The photograph showed a man standing beside a concrete pillar. Dark coat. Gray shirt. Black shoes. Adrian. The photograph had been taken less than a minute ago. He enlarged it. In the picture, Adrian was watching Elara. He looked at the unknown number. Then typed: Who is this? Delivered. No answer. He waited. Elara? The reply came immediately. You shouldn't use my name yet. Adrian's fingers became cold. Another message appeared. We haven't met. The train lights flickered. For half a second, darkness filled the station. A child's voice whispered inside Adrian's memory. Don't look away. The lights returned. His phone vibrated. Another photograph. Adrian opened it. His apartment. The picture had been taken from inside his living room. His chair stood beside the window. His notebook rested on the table. Open. Adrian enlarged the image. His handwriting was visible. 6:17 — Awake. Gray shirt. Left sleeve down. Shoulders tense. Slow movement. Someone had entered his apartment. No. Someone might still be there. Adrian opened the security application on his phone. Camera one. Offline. Camera two. Offline. Camera three. Offline. A message arrived. Three cameras. Then another. One above the door. One in the kitchen. One facing the window. Adrian's mouth became dry. Nobody knew where the cameras were. He had installed them himself. You should hide them better. Adrian typed quickly. Who are you? The answer appeared. Go home, Adrian. His heart beat harder. The stranger knew his name. I left something for you. Adrian stared at the screen. Then typed: What do you want? Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then returned. You've been watching me for three years. The noise of the station seemed to fade. Adrian stopped moving. Another message. Did you really think I never looked back? Adrian slowly raised his head. Across the platform stood Elara Voss. People moved around her. She remained still. Watching him. There was no window between them now. No reflective glass. No sixty-three meters of distance. Adrian could see her eyes. Gray. Elara lifted one hand. She touched two fingers to her left wrist. Adrian's stomach tightened. He knew that gesture. She did it when she lied. But Elara had said nothing. She smiled. A train moved between them. For several seconds, Adrian saw only silver metal and dark windows. When the train passed, Elara was gone. His phone vibrated. You missed eleven minutes. Adrian read the message twice. Eleven minutes. His mind returned to the first night. Rain against the glass. Elara crying. Adrian watching. He had watched her for exactly eleven minutes. He always believed that was when his obsession began. But she knew. How? Adrian looked at the black envelope inside his coat. He had forgotten about it. Slowly, he removed it. His fingers opened the envelope. Inside was a photograph. Old. The colors had faded. A young boy sat on a chair. Adrian recognized himself. He could not have been older than twelve. Beside him sat a little girl. Her face had been scratched away. Behind the children was a glass wall. A number was painted on it. 7. Adrian turned the photograph over. Three words were written on the back. YOU LOOKED AWAY. His hands began to shake. A memory forced itself into his mind. A dark room. Glass. A girl sitting with her knees against her chest. Adrian stood on the other side. Someone behind him spoke. “Keep watching.” The girl looked at Adrian. Her eyes were gray. Don't look away. Adrian closed his eyes. The memory disappeared. His phone vibrated. One final message. You remember me. Adrian stared across the empty platform. For three years, he had believed he was watching Elara. He knew her habits. Her movements. Her routines. He knew the exact moment she woke every morning. But for the first time, Adrian asked himself a different question. How long had Elara been watching him? The answer came from somewhere deep inside his mind. A place filled with smoke and broken memories. Longer. Adrian looked at the photograph again. At the girl whose face had been destroyed. Then at the number behind her. Seven. His phone screen went black. For a moment, Adrian saw his reflection. And behind him— a little girl smiled. Adrian turned. Nobody was there. When he looked back at the screen, a new message waited. This time, don't look away.