You come to Glasslight twice that week.

  That’s new.

  You never came twice in a week before. Not even when you were trying to outrun your own skin. Not even when your poems turned to ash in your hands. But now?

  Now you drift in on a Thursday like it’s not special. Like we didn’t just walk home together three nights ago. Like you didn’t say my name like it tasted better the second time.

  You pretend you’re here to “look around.”

  I pretend not to watch.

  It’s a dance. And you’re not bad at it. But you keep repeating the same moves. Your fingers twitch when you’re near the old Leica. You trace the same curve in the glass case twice. You pick up the same print from the west wall and tilt your head at the same impossible angle.

  And me?

  I just breathe.

  I let the moment stretch.

  Let it whisper something into the corners of your mind.

  Let it say: he makes you feel calm.

  Let it say: he’s the only thing that doesn’t need explaining.

  You stay for forty minutes.

  You don’t buy anything.

  But when you leave, you say, “See you.”

  Not goodbye.

  Not maybe.

  See you.

  The next time we see each other, it’s in line at the pharmacy.

  You’re holding cold medicine and chapstick.

  You look miserable.

  Your hair’s tied back but loose in places, and there’s a faint redness in your eyes. No makeup. Your sleeves pushed up halfway like you were trying to keep them clean and gave up.

  You don’t see me until I speak.

  “Lemsip is a bold choice. That stuff tastes like melted battery acid.”

  You jump. Smile. You look like someone who’s too tired to be suspicious.

  “Kellan.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  You say it like a fact. Like my name explains why you’re suddenly less annoyed at life.

  I say, “Didn’t take you for the flu type.”

  You sniff. “Didn’t take myself for the forgetting-to-sleep type.”

  You almost drop your wallet and fumble to catch it, but I beat you to it. My fingers close over yours. Briefly. Carefully.

  “Guess I’m not just everywhere. I’m useful, too.”

  You laugh. It’s hoarse. Quiet.

  I don’t offer to walk you home this time. That would be too much. You’re sick, and people get weird about that. Walls go up when they’re vulnerable unless you keep the right distance.

  But I do something else.

  I say, “Here. You’re gonna need this.”

  And I hand you a fresh pack of tissues before you reach the counter.

  You blink at it.

  Say nothing for three seconds.

  Then, softly:

  “Thanks.”

  And that’s the best kind of word there is.

  The kind you don’t mean casually.

  I don’t see you for two days.

  Which is fine.

  Sick days don’t count in the rhythm of things. You disappear into bed and tissues and old books and nighttime meds that make you tweet things you delete later. I don’t blame you.

  But I do watch your window.

  I walk past around 7 p.m. both nights. Just casually. A scarf, a coffee, a newspaper—whatever it takes to blend. You forget to close the curtain again. Or maybe you don’t forget. Maybe you just think no one’s watching.

  But I always am.

  The second night, the light flickers.

  You’re having trouble with the lamp.

  You smack it with your palm like you’re punishing it for giving up before you did.

  I want to fix it for you.

  But I don’t.

  Instead, I leave a small envelope on your doormat the next morning. You don’t see me. I time it perfectly—just after you take out the trash, just before you open the blinds.

  Inside is a handwritten note on clean, heavy paper.

  

  “You don’t need to be whole to be seen.

  And you don’t need to be seen to be loved.”

  I don’t sign it.

  I know you’ll know it’s me.

  And that knowing will be better than the signature.

  When you come back to Glasslight, it’s Sunday.

  You’re still pale. Your voice still frays around the edges. But you look better. Stronger. Like the kind of girl who survived something and decided to look good doing it.

  You walk straight up to the counter.

  You don’t pretend today.

  You say, “You left that note.”

  I say, “Wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

  You raise an eyebrow. “But you did.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I just had the paper already.”

  You chew the inside of your cheek. That’s your tell. You only do it when you’re about to say something that feels more intimate than you’re used to giving.

  “You didn’t sign it.”

  “Didn’t need to.”

  You nod.

  You get it.

  I watch you touch the edge of the note still folded in your pocket.

  You stayed up late reading it, didn’t you?

  You reread it more than once.

  You don’t throw things away when they matter.

  That’s what makes you real.

  You sit with me behind the counter this time.

  You ask what I’m reading. I lie and say Rilke. You lie and say you like Rilke. That’s fine. Most people lie about books. But you’re not doing it to impress me. You’re doing it to meet me halfway.

  You ask if I write.

  And I say, “Only for people who matter.”

  You smile.

  And this time, it stays.

  You post again.

  First time in weeks.

  Instagram story. Just a blurred photo of a window and the text:

  

  light looks different lately

  You don’t tag me.

  Of course not.

  But it’s about me.

  I know it is.

  And that’s better.

  The next day, I leave a copy of Letters to a Young Poet on the counter with a note inside:

  

  You said you used to write.

  Maybe you still do.

  Maybe you always will.

  You take it without saying anything.

  You tuck it into your bag like it was already yours.

  You say, “Thanks, Kellan.”

  And for the first time, you don’t say my name like you’re trying it out.

  You say it like you already believe it belongs in your mouth.

  Which means the door is open now.

  And I don’t need to knock.