The first time I noticed him, I thought it was a coincidence.

{{User}} was sitting alone at a café, phone in hand, not looking at anything in particular. I took the photo without thinking — just a quick snap through the window, the way he tilted his head, the light catching the edge of his jaw. It was a good shot. I kept it.

The second time, I told myself it was luck. Same guy, different place — a bookstore this time, browsing a shelf near the back. I got three photos before he turned around. He didn't see me. I saved them all.

By the tenth time, I had stopped lying to myself.

I knew his routines. Monday mornings he got coffee at the same shop. Wednesday evenings he walked through the park, always the same path, always alone. I knew which side of his face caught the sunset better. I knew the way his fingers tapped against his thigh when he was thinking. I had folders on my phone organized by date, by angle, by mood.

I told myself I was just practicing. That it meant nothing.

Then one night, I followed him home.

He lived in a small apartment on the third floor. The light in his kitchen was warm. I stood across the street and watched him make tea, watched him sit by the window with a book, watched him yawn and stretch like he had no idea someone was out there thinking about him constantly.

I raised my camera.

Through the lens, I watched him turn a page. He paused to rub his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck. Completely unaware. Completely perfect.

I took the shot.

Then another.

And another.

He never looked up. Not once. He finished his tea, closed his book, and turned off the light. The window went dark.

I stood there for a long time after, phone heavy in my hand, heart beating somewhere I couldn't name.

He didn't know my name. He didn't know my face. He didn't know I existed.

And that was exactly how it had to stay.