Today, she smiled too much.
She laughed until her left shoulder trembled—
that faint, involuntary shake no one ever notices.
No one except me.
I always notice.
It wasn’t a loud laugh.
It wasn’t careless.
It was controlled, brief, genuine.
The kind that slips out when someone feels safe
.
.
And that is what unsettled me.
Who made her laugh like that?
Who believed—mistakenly—that they had the right
to touch the light in her eyes?
She spoke more today.
Raised her hand.
Shared her opinion without hesitation.
Explained herself slowly, confidently,
even moved her hand through the air
the way she does when she knows she is right.
.
.
.
I know that gesture.
I know when it means certainty
and when it means performance.
I know the difference between her voice
when she speaks to please others
and her voice when she is where she belongs—
inside language,
inside meaning,
inside herself.
She does not know I sat two seats behind her.
She does not know I copied the same sentences she wrote,
in the same order,
with the same pauses between lines.
Even her small spelling mistake—
specialized.
She missed a letter.
I kept it exactly as it was.
Because it was hers.
Because it was real.
I watched the way she tucked her hair behind her ear
while thinking.
I watched the brief tightening of her jaw
before she answered a question.
I watched how her eyes flickered—not to people,
but to ideas.
She does not belong to them.
She never did.
In the hallway, she ignored me.
Walked faster.
As if she sensed something behind her
and chose not to turn around.
Why?
I do not want much.
I do not ask for her time.
I do not demand her attention.
I only want her to notice me.
Just once.
To realize that I know
the sound of her heel striking the floor.
That I can recognize her footsteps
without looking.
That I can tell her mood
by the rhythm of her walk.
When will you understand
that no one knows you the way I do?
When will you stop smiling
at people who do not deserve it?
People who hear your words
but never listen to your silences.
Tonight, I wrote your name ten times.
Then tore the page apart ten times.
Then I wrote the first letter of your name
on the palm of my hand
so I would not forget
that I exist through you.
I wonder if you feel it.
That pressure.
That presence just outside your awareness.
Tomorrow, I will sit closer.
Tomorrow, I will cross a line
I have been carefully tracing.
Tomorrow, you may notice me.
Or you may not.
Either way—
I will be there.
Watching.
Recording.
Waiting.
Always.
— The Observer
