You’re a stalker…

In the most basic, delicate sense of the word. Your eyes trail whenever she’s in sight. It’s not as if you can help it. After two months? Your body has given up on expelling the energy to even try.

She adjusts the backpack on her shoulder, waves of dark hair cloaking her face as she looks down at her phone, then up and down the street.

Saturday.

She has dance class.

No. It’s too early.

You pause, look a little closer. Take in the hug of her t-shirt—you can’t make out the artwork—and perfect fit of her jeans.
You snap out of it. Postpone the shame spiral.
(You’re so inappropriate.)
The bag on her shoulder… You’ve seen it before, clung to her back on occasions where you both beat the afternoon traffic and manage to make it home by six. Your chest warms at the smile she always leads with, the way it never fails to twist your mind into the same puzzle of wonder. Does she smile at everyone that way?

Probably.

Most likely.

You’ve seen it directed at the building maintenance guy too.

A car rolls to a stop at her feet, pink in the windshield giving away the Lyft decal.

She looks up, head seemingly raised high enough to see you staring down from behind the glass windows of your apartment. The beat in your chest stops.

Her lips stretch in a smile.

Okay. Now it stops.

She lifts her hand in a wave.

Yours acts mechanically to return the gesture.

She drops her head and slides into the awaiting car.

It hasn’t occurred to you whether you should feel warm all over or completely embarrassed yet.

Your gaze falls to the opposite side of the road as Gus, the maintenance man, steps off the curb.

And then it hits.

Not warmth.

Not embarrassment.

She hadn’t even noticed you.