The Artist's Gaze
941 Words
Chapter 3
The Artist’s Gaze
The supermarket was never her favorite place.
Too bright.
Too crowded.
Too many voices overlapping.
But she needed bread. And milk. And dog food.
So she went.
She always chose evenings — when the crowd was thinner and the air felt calmer. She liked walking through aisles slowly, reading labels she already knew, pretending she wasn’t observing people.
But she always was.
She liked watching unnoticed.
What she didn’t know…
Was that someone was watching her too.
He had been restocking shelves in aisle three when he saw her.
Not dramatically. Not like lightning struck.
Just a shift.
She stood by the cereal section, reading the back of a box as if it held secrets. Her hair fell slightly over her face, and she didn’t bother pushing it away.
Most people moved through the store carelessly.
She moved like she was thinking.
Like she carried a quiet world inside her.
He didn’t know why he noticed that.
But he did.
He worked part-time there to support himself while building his art portfolio. Most days felt the same — shelves, customers, scanning, repeating “Have a nice day.”
But that evening felt different.
Because of her.
She reached for a pack of milk at the same time he did.
Their fingers almost touched.
She pulled her hand back quickly.
“Oh— sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said.
He looked at her properly then.
Her eyes were not loud. Not flirtatious. Just… distant. Like she was somewhere else even while standing in front of him.
“You can take it,” he added.
She shook her head. “You got there first.”
He smiled slightly. “We can both survive. There’s more inside.”
She gave the smallest nod.
He handed her the milk anyway.
She hesitated before taking it.
“Thank you.”
Her voice was softer than he expected.
He watched her walk away.
Not in a creepy way.
In a curious way.
Later, at the counter, she noticed him again.
He was scanning someone’s groceries, movements steady and efficient. But when the line cleared and she stepped forward, he straightened slightly.
“Hi,” he said.
She placed her items on the counter.
“Hi.”
He scanned them one by one.
Bread. Milk. Dog food. A notebook.
“A writer?” he asked casually, tapping the notebook.
She blinked. “No.”
He tilted his head.
“You look like one.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that.
Nobody had ever described her like that before.
“Just… thoughts,” she said quietly.
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
“I’m Noah,” he said.
She froze slightly.
Names made things real.
She told him hers.
He didn’t repeat it like Daniel had.
He held it in his mouth for a second.
Then smiled.
“That suits you.”
Her chest felt strange.
Not safe.
Not calm.
Just… stirred.
After she left, he stood still for a few seconds.
He didn’t know why he felt unsettled.
He had seen beautiful girls before.
But she wasn’t loud-beautiful.
She was quiet-beautiful.
The kind that makes you want to paint instead of speak.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
So he did what he always did when something lingered in his mind.
He sketched.
At first, it was just her silhouette.
Then her eyes.
Not exact. But close.
He tried to capture the way she looked like she didn’t belong in noisy places.
The way she held the notebook like it mattered.
He didn’t even know her properly.
But somehow…
He felt like he understood something about her.
The next evening, she returned.
Not because she needed anything urgently.
But because she told herself she forgot biscuits.
She hadn’t.
He noticed immediately.
“You forgot something yesterday?” he asked.
She avoided eye contact. “Yes.”
He didn’t push.
He just smiled.
He liked that she didn’t perform.
Most girls tried too hard when they saw him sketching during break.
She didn’t even know he drew.
Yet.
As she walked down aisle five, she felt it.
That strange awareness.
Like someone was observing her movements.
Not judging.
Studying.
She turned slightly.
He was at the end of the aisle, pretending to arrange bottled water.
Their eyes met.
This time, she didn’t look away immediately.
Something passed between them.
Not conversation.
Not romance.
Recognition.
Two quiet people.
But his quiet was different from hers.
Hers was defensive.
His was expressive.
When she reached the counter again, he handed her the receipt and said softly—
“Do you ever sit still long enough to notice when someone notices you?”
Her breath caught.
“What?”
He looked almost amused.
“Nothing.”
He leaned closer slightly.
“You look like someone who thinks she’s invisible.”
Her fingers tightened around the receipt.
“I’m not.”
“I know,” he said.
And for the first time, she felt exposed.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like he could see through her silence.
She left the store faster than usual.
Her heart wasn’t calm this time.
It was restless.
That night, she wrote in her diary:
The boy at the supermarket looks at me like I’m a subject.
Pause.
Like I’m art.
Longer pause.
I don’t know if I like that.
Outside her window, Keon’s apartment light was on.
Inside his room, he was reading.
Across the street, in his own small apartment above the supermarket, Noah stared at a half-finished sketch of her.
Two different worlds.
One quiet and steady.
One intense and observing.
And she stood unknowingly between them.
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