There stands Neva, dumbfounded.
What... what did he just say?
No words come from her, so he leans in ever so slightly—drawing their eyes into a parallel line of sight.
His deep, striking eyes—framed by long dark lashes—seize her soul in a breathless leap of a heart.
Those dusky pupils swell, a mysterious glint dancing in them—unreadable and intense.
Neva's body is feather–light, but she stands there rooted to the spot—her thoughts hopelessly scattered, her senses dissolving beneath the intense gravity of him.
Her brows knit softly, confusion etched across her frozen features—while her heart drums uproariously in her ears.
Too stunned to speak. Too astray to even blink.
She doesn't remember a scene, wherein someone had stormed her heart in this way—or frozen the breathings.
The mystery man tilts his head, arms folded across his chest—waiting for a response.
But Neva only stares at him.
At him—before her. So... so close...
And then—
as if cast out of heaven, a crisp crunch of dry leaves beneath an approaching step at last breaks the heated tether between their eyes.
A man walks past them, briefly glancing at the pair—two souls lost in a daydream—standing still in the middle of the path.
Neva blinks, her panicked gaze flickering here and there, but nowhere near his eyes.
"I have to—I have to go..."
The mystery man slowly straightens, his gaze still fixed on her—spellbound in serenity.
Neva swallows hard, fists clenching at her sides—summoning the last shreds of will left in her.
Caught in a moment far too intense, she concludes to far away from this man who stirs in her the damncontrary of nerveless.
"Excuse me," she whispers softly, but in her heart, she quietly steels herself, drawing on the concealed courage within her 169-centimeter, slightly shivering frame.
She turns sharply—a rushed ninety-degree pivot,
and walks on, feverish... her cheeks aflame and the rims of her ears a burning red.
Over her small, faring back, long and luscious, glazed waves of locks bounce and sway with the enchanted breeze of autumn.
And she fails to glance back...
and own the fortune of catching the mystery man's trailing eyes—or the dreamy little smile painting his lips.
.
.
.
Her steps slows in a lost space as her mind gradually clears the blinding fog—though wisps of mist still linger in the corners.
She gently bites her lip, thoughts spiraling around the mystery man—a phantom with wings, slicing straight through her muse.
She frowns, her heart aching quietly...
Agape—out of nowhere, without a sensible reason she can assure herself with.
She won't ever admit,
but a little part of her hopes... the mystery man follows.
Maybe... destined for the same destination?
But who is she kidding? He was walking toward the east, while she's on the westside.
She exhales—looking down at her shoes, the laces he had just woven, puzzled by her heart's rebellion for tenderness, even as he's left her core more unraveled than ever before.
She glances up, eyes drifting purposelessly, unknown to her own mind, searching—longing—for even a shadow of him.
Then, just ahead—a tiny bakery cafe a little ahead, catches half of her attention.
A spark of happiness immediately glistens in her soft almond eyes.
.
.
.
The scent of fresh bread, strong coffee, and the nostalgic sweetness of endless desserts mingles and swirls through the warm bakery cafe, nearly empty of customers.
And there, Neva leans in slightly, eyes wide, pupils dilating as she studies the array of baked goods gleaming behind the glass.
So many textures, colors, scents—each dessert more tempting than the last. Her gaze lingers, enthralled on one in particular.
"You like shortcakes?"
Her eyes light up instantly, lips parting slightly in delight. She has a notorious sweet tooth—and strawberry shortcakes are her ultimate weakness.
"Yes!" she breathes, almost childlike in her glee.
A presence with a tranquil heart—she fails to recognise the voice.
Unlike the storm the beautiful, handsome man had stirred in her only moments ago.
A youthful smile dances on her rosy lips as she turns her head to glance at the speaker.
She blinks—once.
Twice.
Then a third time, slow and stunned.
Her eyes widen dramatically as the veil of trance lifts, unveiling the familiar features—just inches away.
The corners of her lips fail to rise anymore.
He is real.
Truly here.
None other than her mystery man.
He smiles at her.
And her knees weaken, a storm churning in her belly.
A delicate ting~ of the bell above the doorway signals a new customer's arrival, snapping Neva back to her senses.
She straightens abruptly, grasping for composure.
Her gaze flicks to the cashier behind the counter.
Mind hazy—always hazy. And who else to blame? The mystery man.
Neva shakes her head faintly.
"Please pack four pieces of strawberry shortcakes, and a loaf of bread," she says, her voice steadier than she feels.
The cashier has been always there—quietly bearing witness as they floated in their own universe.
He nods, typing quickly on the computer.
''That'll be 28.90. Anything else, ma'am?''
Neva shakes her head again, fingers fumbling with the tiny purse as he packs the items.
She hands over the cash, murmuring thanks as he passes her the brown paper bag. ''You're welcome. Please visit again,'' he says.
Neva offers him a faint smile, and briefly glances at the mystery man standing silently beside her.
His gaze fixed on her.
She breathes in shakily, her heart refusing to calm, pounding fast and loud in her chest.
Is she sick?
Neva forces herself to ignore him and steps out of the store.
But just a few paces ahead, an impulse grips her—she glances back.
Her breath catches as their eyes meet.
The glass door closes behind him as he steps out.
She tears her stunned gaze away and quickly moves forward.
She frowns, realising there's nothing in his hands—clearly, he hadn't bought anything from the bakery.
Soft footsteps trail behind her.
Is he following me?
No! Why would he?
But... what if he is?
She purses her lips, instantly brushing off the giddiness of a young, virgin heart—the quiet thrill of being noticed by a handsome stranger. Instead, she steels herself, careful, her guard rising instinctively.
No words are exchanged as she reaches the convenience store just some meters ahead of the bakery cafe.
She breezes in hurriedly.
Only the cashier and a few quiet, scattered customers are moving about inside.
Without pause, she marches straight ahead to gather what she needs.
Her heart skips a beat as she glances over her shoulder.
There he is—just a few strides away, hands buried in the pockets of his oversized black zip-up hoodie.
Neva presses her lips together.
He glances her way.
She quickly turns away, breath catching, quickening her pace.
Time blurs—seconds stretch into slow, syrupy spans. She roams the aisles aimlessly, pretending to be engrossed in her errands, grabbing random items she doesn't need—anything to feign ignorance of the stranger's gaze trailing her every move.
Neva breathes heavily, each inhale a struggle as she fights to regain control over her fraying emotions.
She sneaks a glance at him.
There he is, arms crossed and clinging to her like a shadow, his dark, shimmering eyes fixed on her.
He smiles.
Neva bites her lips and turns away toward the cookies stacked in neat rows,
the urge to confront him about his 'misbehaviors' simmering beneath her skin.
"What's the matter with him?" she mutters to herself.
Strangely, she doesn't sense any creepy vibes radiating from him, which only deepens the crease between her brows.
Calculating a hundred ways to handle the situation, she takes a steadying breath in, fists her hands, and pivots toward him.
"Why are you following me?" Her voice is steady, each word deliberate.
He lifts a strong, dark brow.
Silence.
She waits, her gaze locked onto his.
"I confessed," he says at last.
"Yet you gave me nothing in return." His steps are slow, deliberate, intimidating, as he closes the distance.
Neva swallows as he stands inches from her. How is she to respond that?
She inhales deeply through her nostrils. "Please keep your distance. I don't owe you any response."
She holds a fierce expression, her words as calm and stern as she can make them.
But that darn stroke of rosy color on her fair cheeks gives her away—easily.
"I wouldn't, I couldn't even if I wanted to," he says, lightly shaking his head.
Oh... The way his smile makes him appear such a pure merchant...
of a mystifying devotion.
This girl made the strings of his heart clench, while he tried to weave together her own tangled threads.
How could he? Why would he leave and not let her compensate for it?