Chapter Three – The First Time I Saw Her Xavier’s POV
1044 Words
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The first time I saw her, she actually saved me from a near accident with a fast-moving Porsche. She saved my life. One would think that’s where my obsession started—but it actually began when she smiled at me and looked at me from beneath those long, dark lashes.
The next time I saw her was on campus. She stepped into the rain to help me pick up my books after they’d been knocked down by other students rushing to take shelter.
No umbrella. No coat. Just her—soaked, shivering, and radiant.
Her name? Amara Sloane.
Law major. Honors program. From a small town three hours outside the city.
Thick thighs, fuller hips, a soft belly under vintage t-shirts. Not the kind of girl most guys tripped over themselves for.
But she was the one for me.
The only one I saw.
Every day after that, I followed her.
She doesn’t even recognize me. Or maybe she doesn’t remember.
At first, I kept my distance. I’d sit in the back of her classes, even though I wasn’t enrolled in most of them. I memorized her schedule. Knew when she had study groups. Knew she preferred vanilla chai over black coffee. That she hummed under her breath when she was anxious. That she wore her natural curls in a bun when she didn’t feel pretty.
I hated those days.
She always looked beautiful to me.
Especially when she thought no one was watching.
But I was always watching.
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People say obsession is a sickness.
But it didn’t feel like that.
It felt like purpose.
She became the rhythm of my days. The reason I woke up early. The reason I started working night shifts—as a janitor, a campus security intern, even a cook at the law cafeteria. Anything that brought me closer without being seen.
Sometimes, she looked right through me. Bumped shoulders. Mumbled an apology. Smiled politely.
She had no idea.
I lived for those moments.
The scraps of her attention.
The glimmer of her voice.
I started collecting them.
The books she returned to the library—I’d borrow them after her and highlight the same passages.
The lip balm she lost in the lecture hall—I kept it in a box.
Her handwriting—copied a thousand times from class notes she forgot on library tables.
I told myself it was love.
But love doesn’t consume you.
Obsession does.
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I watched her fall for Malik during sophomore year.
He was cocky. Smooth. Fake.
I knew, from the first time he touched her lower back, that he didn’t deserve her. That he only saw the curve of her body, not the mind that lit up behind her eyes.
I wanted to break his fingers for touching her.
I almost did—twice.
Once in the gym locker room.
Again when I followed him to his car and saw him kissing Brielle—just two weeks into his “relationship” with Amara.
She didn’t know.
She trusted him.
And it made me burn.
He and Brielle were laughing. Drunk on power. Plotting. I heard it all from the shadows.
The bet.
“If I can get her into my bed before graduation, you owe me three grand.”
My blood went cold.
She was nothing more than a game to them.
They thought she was naïve.
But they didn’t understand what it meant to break something precious.
Not like I did.
I started planning that night.
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I knew I’d have to kill him.
Not out of anger.
Out of necessity.
He was poison. If I let him live, he’d keep hurting her. Dimming her light. Trapping her in heartbreak.
And Brielle—she was worse.
Jealous. Bitter. Always lingering close, feeding off Amara’s insecurities while pretending to be a friend. I’d seen her sneer behind Amara’s back when she got honors. Heard the way she talked to Malik about her weight, her laugh, her clothes.
Snakes. Both of them.
They had to go.
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It wasn’t hard.
I’d been preparing for years.
A tampered brake line. A well-timed oil leak. An empty road I’d scoped out for three nights straight.
All it took was a push.
A little patience.
And a willingness to watch it happen.
The moment the car went up in flames, I stood on the ridge above the cliff—hands in my pockets, heart steady.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t angry.
I was clean.
Because now, nothing stood between her and me.
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I left the café that night knowing she’d break.
She had to.
She needed to fall apart to understand who would be there to pick up the pieces.
Me.
The shadows she feared? I was them.
But I was also her salvation.
The only one who never lied. Never hurt her. Never betrayed her.
I knew I scared her.
That’s what made her real.
But love rooted in obsession doesn’t care about fear.
Only closeness.
And we were getting closer.
One note at a time.
One message. One dream. One sigh.
Until she stopped looking for answers and started looking for me.
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Sometimes I wonder if she ever felt me nearby.
The night she cried on her bathroom floor—I was outside her window, listening.
The day she got the internship call—I left a white rose in her mailbox.
The moment she saw Malik’s phone messages—I was in the hallway outside, fists clenched, waiting to hear her scream.
I felt her pain like it was mine.
Because it was.
Because everything about her belonged to me—even if she didn’t know it yet.
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People say you can’t love someone you don’t really know.
They’re wrong.
I know every shade of her smile.
Every crack in her voice when she’s about to cry.
I know the way she walks faster when she’s nervous and stares at the ceiling when she’s lost in thought.
I know she likes rainy days more than sunshine.
That she wears socks to bed in the winter.
That she tugs her sleeves down when she feels exposed.
I know her.
Better than anyone ever has.
And one day soon, she’ll know me.
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