Never Meet

The Lie Of Proximity

The obsession began leaking into her days. London felt dull and suffocating.

Rain-drenched streets blurred as she

wandered them, phone in hand, scrolling,

searching, yearning. Every notification made her pulse quicken. Every silence gnawed at her. Friends

called, but she ignored them. Work

deadlines blurred. Her apartment grew

cluttered-coffee cups, open notebooks,

and her phone, always glowing, always

alive with possibilities.

She told herself she was careful. That it

was harmless curiosity. That the man in

Rome was just a fantasy, a photograph she

had fallen for.

And yet, she started seeing him

everywhere. In crowds, in cafés, in the

reflections of glass and puddles. His smirk

haunted her like a ghost. She imagined his

voice, deep and calm, threading through

her mind at odd hours. Then one evening, a thought struck her. An impossible, reckless thought.

What if I went to Rome?

She laughed at the absurdity, whispered it

aloud to her empty apartment. But the

whisper turned to an idea. She would tell

herself it was "for work, a design project.

But the truth was far simpler, far darker:

she needed to see him. To confirm that he

was real. To touch the mystery she had

obsessed over for weeks.

Her hands trembled as she opened the

flight booking page. The words blurred as

the city outside her window reflected her

decision back at her: the rain tapping, the

lights low, the shadows long. She clicked

"Confirm." She didn't know if she was running toward him-or away from herself.