Jasmine
I didn’t go to the studio for four days.
The first morning, I convinced myself I just needed time to think. By the second, thinking had become an excuse. And by the third, I realized I wasn’t thinking at all.
I was stuck. Every conclusion I reached unraveled the moment I looked at it too closely, leaving me right back where I’d started.
He’d seen me before the bar, gone looking for me, and then gone home and drawn my face from memory after seeing me for no longer than half a minute. Then he’d returned to the library day after day, hoping to catch another glimpse of a woman whose name he didn’t even know.
No matter how many times I replayed his confession, it never sounded any less unsettling.
It should have frightened me enough to end things outright, and some nights it did.
