Without Your Persmission

Chapter 3: Anomalies

Order. That was the first thing I learned about him.

There was a grace to how Alistair Craven existed in the world—meticulous, unswerving, a man who repeated the same ritual of self every single day. His routines weren't just habits; they were architecture. I studied them like blueprints. Admired the symmetry of his mornings, the geometry of his footsteps, the elegance of predictability.

It wasn't difficult to keep pace once I learned the rhythm.

5:12 a.m. jog through the West District trail.

:03 a.m. coffee at Brine & Bloom, always americano with a splash of oat milk

7:05 a.m. black car, driver never gets out.

7:30 a.m. enters his office tower, nods once to the guard, never stops to talk.

I called it The Frame. The silent hours before the rest of the world yawned awake—those were mine with him, even if he never saw me. I didn't need acknowledgment to feel proximity. Not yet.

But I was beginning to crave more.

Just a little more.

Just a glance.

Just something to confirm I was real.

And then someone changed the equation.

⸻

She appeared on a Tuesday.

I noticed her first on the trail—sleek ponytail, mirrored sunglasses, matching him stride for stride. It could've been coincidence. But the next day, she was at Brine & Bloom, ordering a cortado, laughing—laughing—with that same barista he never spoke to.

And then the elevator photo.

It showed up on one of the local business newsletters Gretta subscribed me to. I rarely opened them, but that day I did. It was a candid photo—Alistair standing near the elevator panel, checking his watch. And just beside him, in the mirrored corner, that same woman. Smiling at something I couldn't see.

I dropped my phone.

It wasn't the image that gutted me—it was the realization that someone else had taken it. Someone else had noticed him, frozen him in time, and worse, caught her there too. Inside the frame I thought only I had access to.

I closed the photo, but the image burned behind my eyes.

She was erasing me before I ever existed.

⸻

"Have you eaten today?" Gretta asked, halfway into her smoothie, eyes flicking between me and the open window.

I had forgotten she was there.

"I had toast," I lied, fingers twitching near my laptop. I hadn't touched food since the night before. My stomach had shriveled under the weight of something bigger than hunger.

Gretta narrowed her eyes. "You've been weird lately. Like, next-level cryptic. It's your 'I'm-spiraling-but-I'm-fine' face."

"I'm working on something," I said.

"You always are. That's not new."

"It's important."

"More important than sleeping? Or blinking? Because you're doing neither."

I offered her a smile that probably looked like a grimace. "Some things matter more than rest."

She chewed her straw. "Is this about a guy?"

My head snapped up so fast I bit my tongue. "What?"

"You flinched," she said, smug. "It's a guy. Oh my god, you're in love."

"Don't say that."

"Why not?"

"Because love implies reciprocation."

Gretta studied me. "That's such a you-thing to say. Morbid and romantic and not romantic at all." She stood and stretched. "Fine. Keep your secrets. Just...don't forget you have a real life, too. You know, one that includes food and sunlight."

⸻

I returned to The Frame that evening. Reviewed it with surgical precision.

There was too much noise now. Her face cropped up like an error in code. I highlighted her appearances in red.

6:00 a.m. – arrived before him.

6:05 a.m. – smiled at him.

6:08 a.m. – moved closer to his line of sight.

6:10 a.m. – they spoke. He spoke back.

I had to rebalance the system.

Before she overtook him.

⸻

Thursday, I dressed differently. Nothing dramatic, but deliberate.

Soft charcoal coat, cinched at the waist. Dark jeans. Boots with a heel I never wore. A scarf the color of bruised lavender. Something about it made me feel taller. Present.

I arrived early. Sat outside the café, sketchbook in hand, coffee untouched.

When he arrived, she wasn't there.

I held my breath so tightly I thought my ribs would crack.

He walked past me. Not a glance.

But then—he paused. Just slightly.

His eyes flicked sideways.

To the sketchbook.

And for a fraction of a second, we breathed the same suspended air.

I didn't look up. I couldn't. But I felt his gaze linger.

When he stepped inside, I finally inhaled. My hands were trembling.

The new barista—a kid with half-dyed green hair—grinned at me as I approached the counter.

"You know him?" he asked, nodding subtly toward the door Alistair had just exited through.

I blinked. "Not exactly."

"Just curious. You're here when he's here. Like clockwork."

Heat bloomed under my skin. "It's coincidence."

He chuckled. "Sure. Well, if you're trying to impress him, maybe ditch the decaf. That guy looks like he bleeds espresso."

I didn't laugh.

I just smiled, teeth pressed so tight I thought they'd snap.

⸻

Back home, I expanded the timeline.

I added a second tab: Anomalies.

She had a name now—Alicia. I found it through a mutual tagged photo on some obscure event planner's i********:. Alicia Crestwell. Venture capital consultant. Harvard alum. Entirely forgettable except for the way she inserted herself into someone else's pattern.

I set alerts on her socials. Geo-tags. Time-stamped updates.

It wasn't about her.

It was about removal.

⸻

Friday, I returned to the gallery for a meeting. The assistant, Molly, chirped greetings I barely registered. She complimented a new piece I hadn't finished. Asked if I wanted coffee. I said no. My thoughts were elsewhere.

I checked the CCTV timestamp in the elevator lobby of Alistair's office building via an unsecured internal loop I had accessed three days ago.

Alicia Crestwell was not in it.

I nearly smiled.

That night, I dreamt of Alistair's voice.

I had never heard it up close before—not clearly—but in the dream it was low and steady, like thunder rolling across silk. He said my name like it was a code he had just deciphered. Aurora. Again. Again. Aurora.

I woke up gasping, sweat slick on my palms.

At 3:00 a.m., I updated the timeline.

⸻

Saturday morning, I lingered at the footpath where his jog ended.

It wasn't stalking.

It was cartography.

I was mapping devotion.

He saw me. I know he did. I had to pretend I didn't notice.

But when he passed by, his eyes landed on my scarf again.

This time, he slowed just slightly.

Then, he nodded.

A gesture so small, so unspeakably casual—

But to me, it was revelation.

I didn't breathe until he was gone.

Even the smallest of his attention is making me intoxicated.

But the high didn't last.

By Sunday, the feeling returned.

Not the thrill of being seen—something darker.

I was walking home from Brine & Bloom, my fingers curled around the coffee he hadn't ordered today, when I sensed it. The weight behind my spine. The pause in the wind. Someone watching.

I turned.

No one.

But I knew.

⸻

At home, I locked the door. Then locked it again.

I deleted Alicia Crestwell's name from the red tags. She hadn't shown up in three days.

But someone else had.

I checked the hallway camera I had installed weeks ago, disguised in an old wall vent.

One frame was corrupted.

Just one.

From 1:19 a.m. to 1:23 a.m.

Four minutes of static.

I stared at it until my vision blurred.

Sunday night dinner with Gretta was strained.

She talked about a potential trip to Venice. I nodded at the right places. She mentioned a new gallery investor. I pretended to care. But my hands itched for my phone.

"You're somewhere else again," she said flatly.

"I'm tired."

"You're obsessed."

I looked at her. "I'm focused."

"There's a difference."

"I know. This is focus."

She pushed her plate away. "If you're not careful, it'll turn into something else."

I smiled, soft. "What if it already has?"

⸻

That night, I stared at the updated timeline.

His schedule had warped slightly—more spontaneous meetings, less coffee. He wasn't sleeping at his penthouse every night. Something shifted in him. I could feel it.

I wondered if it had anything to do with me.

I hoped it did.

I prayed it didn't.

I opened the document. Added a new note:

Monday, 4:23 p.m. – Eye contact confirmed.

Microexpression: intrigue?

Follow-up: position self closer.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

Just one message.

You're not as invisible as you think.

I froze. The screen lit up my face like an interrogation lamp.

My breath stopped mid-rib.

I turned toward the window.

There was no one there.

But I couldn't shake the feeling.

Not tonight.

Not anymore.