The rain had just started when I noticed her. She was standing by the bus stop, hood pulled up, clutching a notebook to her chest as though it contained something fragile. She looked small, lost. Vulnerable. I’ve always had a soft spot for people like that — the ones who drift through life unseen, as if they’re made of smoke.

I watched her for a while before making my move. Casual, polite, nothing alarming. I asked about the bus schedule, joked about how late it always ran. She smiled, and it was the kind of smile that lingers, the kind that makes you want to see it again. We talked until the bus finally came, and I let her board first. I didn’t get on, of course. Not yet. I had everything I needed: her name, the title scribbled on her notebook, the way her shoulders relaxed when she thought someone had finally noticed her.

Over the next few days, I learned more. She liked to sit in the library. How she hummed under her breath when she was nervous. Which path did she take home? None of it was difficult — people never realize how visible they are to someone who’s paying attention. I made sure to stay far enough back that she never sensed me, though sometimes I wondered if she could feel it — the weight of my gaze.

She intrigued me. Not because she was special in any obvious way, but because she wasn’t. People like her are pliable, waiting for someone else to define them. That’s where I come in. I notice. I shape. I decide.

Last night, I followed her a little longer than usual, just to see if she’d break routine. She didn’t. She never does. Tonight will be no different — except for me. The streetlight on the corner of her block has been out for weeks. The shadows there are thick, perfect.

I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m just curious, that maybe I’m lonely. I just want a friend. But you’d be wrong. You see, she’s not my friend. She’s my project. And tonight, when she turns onto that quiet street, she’ll finally understand.

Because the story you’ve been reading?

It isn’t hers.

It’s mine.