Never Meet

The Smirk

Three days of rain had left the streets of London smeared and gray. Drea's flat

smelled faintly of coffee and old paper; her

laptop's glow painted her face in pale blue

light. She was alone, as always, yet the

loneliness wasn't new-it was routine, a

constant companion she had learned to

ignore.

The photograph haunted her.

She had saved it to a folder named Veritas,

though the name didn't explain the pull.

She studied the angle, the light, the way his

hand hovered just above the phone, casual

yet deliberate. The smirk. The way his eyes

seemed to meet hers. She wanted to know him. Not just what he looked like-but everything.

Her imagination began filling in the spaces

the picture left empty. What did he laugh

at? What did he hide behind that calm,

almost arrogant smirk?

She followed him. Then scrolled through

the cryptic, poetic account. His posts were

sparse, calculated-shadows and corners

of the world, fragments of phrases in Latin

or Italian. A street lamp glowing like a halo.

Hands covered in paint, frozen mid-motion.

Each post felt intentional, a message that

teased but never explained.

Hours passed. She forgot the rain. She

forgot her work. Even her own name felt

distant, dissolved into the obsession with

the stranger in Rome she had never met. And then a notification lit her screen: a single like on her comment.

From him.

Her pulse spiked. The stranger she had

never met had seen her. A faint

acknowledgment, yet enough to make her

entire body hum with something

dangerous and thrilling.

It was the first thread of connection, and

she was already entangled.