3. The Watcher’s Ritual

Kian Rivers 

She doesn’t see me. But I see her—always.

Through the slit in my blackout curtains, I watch as Lena shuts her bedroom window, the late morning sun catching the strands of her damp hair. She moves with quiet grace, completely unaware that every step, every breath, every blink is being recorded. Documented. Worshipped.

My fingers curl around a warm mug, steam swirling into the stale air of my apartment. I don’t sip. I just hold it, like a prop, as I do every morning. Watching her.

She wears the navy blazer today. Good. That one is my favorite.

I swivel my chair toward the wall of screens behind me. Twelve high-resolution monitors glow softly in the dark. On them, Lena lives a hundred lives. One feed shows her kitchen, another her living room, and another her hallway—my favorite, her bedroom—angled just right through a camera hidden in the smoke detector.

She’s brushing her hair now. Long, slow strokes. Like a lullaby for the soul.

No one knows her like I do.

Not even her.

Some people call it obsession. I call it alignment. Cosmic. Fated. I've studied her rhythms like scripture. I know when she hums under her breath, when she overwaters her plants, when she sighs into her pillow after a bad dream. And lately… she’s been sighing more. Maybe because of the flowers.

I smirk. 

The ones I left for her while she was gone yesterday. A dozen bouquets of fresh red roses arranged just so—on her coffee table, her nightstand, even one resting across her favorite book.

She didn't throw them away.

That means something.

That means she’s ready to feel me in her world.

She leaves her apartment at 7:42 a.m. sharp. Always two minutes behind schedule. I wait until her heels click down the stairwell, then I slip the spare key from my pocket—the one I duplicated after watching her hide it behind the hallway fire extinguisher—and let myself in.

Her home smells like jasmine and page corners. I inhale deeply. Then I walk through every room in silence, touching little things with reverence. A mug she left unwashed, the jacket draped over the chair. Her scent still clings to the fabric.

My gaze lingers on the mirror in her hallway.

I trace the invisible imprint of her name, still etched from the message I left her two nights ago.

LENA.

Red lipstick. A signature of devotion.

She saw it. She stared at it like it held some forbidden prophecy. That look in her eyes—the fear—it didn’t repel me. It invited me. Fear is a seed. Once planted, it grows. And when it blossoms, it needs shelter. Safety.

At work, she tries to hide in the crowd. I follow her anyway. Through reflections, glass doors, tinted elevators. I dress like the interns. Carry fake files. Blend. No one questions me. I watch her today as she speaks to a man—Aaron King. That bastard!

Older. Arrogant. Tired around the eyes. He grabs her waist when she is about to fall and becomes her saviour. That fucking pervert. 

I burn. In jealousy. 

How dare he touch her?

He’s what—mid-forties? Silver streaks in his beard and skin like spoiled leather. He’s not her type. He couldn’t possibly be. I’m twenty-eight. Fit. Sharp. Tall and muscular, the kind of man women would drool over if I were in a magazine or something. But I have my eyes set on her. I've built my world around her.

He probably doesn’t even know what kind of tea she drinks.

I know everything.

At lunch, she steps into the women’s restroom. I wait three minutes, then follow. The hallway’s deserted. Inside, I wipe down the mirror and write her name again in slow, calculated strokes. The same lipstick that I stole from her dresser, the one she keeps there always. But never uses it. How I wish to see her in bold red lips, looking perfect. 

L

E 

N

A

When she sees it, she’ll know I was near. That I never left.

Back home, I add the newest photos to the shrine in my room. Candid shots—her smiling at her phone, walking barefoot across her rug, brushing sleep from her eyes. They’re pinned carefully on a corkboard, surrounding a large screen playing real-time footage of her empty living room.

She’s still out.

I cross-reference all camera feeds. Nothing unusual. But I check anyway. Ritual is everything.

Ritual keeps her close.

Ritual keeps me sane.

In the evening, I see her return. She pauses in the hallway. She senses something. That small, animal tension in her shoulders tells me she knows something’s shifted again. She unlocks the door and steps inside, staring at the still-fresh roses. I hold my breath as I watch.

She whispers something I can’t hear, but I can tell that she is scared. Perfect. The grin on my face vanishes the next moment when—unexpectedly—she turns and waves at someone. A woman. Her neighbor. Older, nosy, always in a floral robe. The woman chuckles, says something, and points at the flowers. I lip-read easily.

“You have an admirer.”

Lena’s body stiffens. Her hand clenches around her purse. My pulse quickens. She invites the neighbor inside. Smart girl. She’s checking. She thinks someone might still be here. She’s right.

I was here yesterday.

I’ll be here tomorrow.

And I will be here everyday just to remind her that I am there. Everywhere she goes. 

As she searches the apartment room by room—while the neighbor settles awkwardly onto her couch—my cameras track her every frantic motion. Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen. She’s terrified. And it’s beautiful. Then she stops. The moment I have been desperately waiting for. 

She is frozen beside her bed. Eyes locked on something I left behind. She picks up the note slowly and unfolds it. Her cute little eyebrows are furrowed in frustration as she reads. And her lips part.

Not in fear but in recognition. Because the message is simple. Clean. Written in her favorite purple ink. 

“I loved you before I even knew your name.”

Her fingers tremble. Her eyes dart to the window. To me. Because this time… I’m not watching from the screen. This time… I’m right outside her window. And she just realized it.