I see him before he sees me.
Rooftop. Third building from mine. He smokes cheap weed and records sunsets like they owe him something. I watch him through my curtain slit — daily. He's not a threat. Not yet.
But the camera bothers me.
It's small, probably second-hand. He holds it like it's sacred. Shoots anything that moves — birds, kites, clouds… sometimes, people.
Once, he points it in my direction. Just once.
That's when I start walking slower past his building. Let him catch the pink of my scarf. Let him wonder.
Let him think I don't notice him noticing me.
Let him feel seen.
---
I still write in red ink.
The notebook's getting full. Page edges curling like secrets whispered too long. The scarf from Sunday is folded beneath my pillow. I haven't washed it.
It smells like fear.
Sometimes, I sniff it before bed. Not because I'm proud — but because I need to remember that I'm still in control.
Control isn't power. It's restraint.
Lesson five taught me that. But this new boy — the one with the camera — he's pulling something loose. Not because he's dangerous. But because he's curious.
Curious boys are harder to shake.
Curious boys ask the wrong questions.
---
Friday. I see him again.
He's closer this time. Same street. Hands in pocket. Camera swinging like an afterthought. He hums a song I know — a Brymo track.
I freeze.
He doesn't see me, but my chest knots. Brymo is too close. Brymo is the man I almost didn't punish. The one with a voice that nearly softened my hands.
I don't like patterns repeating themselves.
So I change the rhythm.
I follow him.
---
He walks toward the back of the student complex. Somewhere quiet. I keep my distance — not too close, not too far. He sits beneath a mango tree and opens a sketchpad.
Not a camera.
A sketchpad.
I didn't expect that.
His fingers move fast — not perfect, but passionate. I inch closer, step by step, until I see the outline of a girl with headphones.
Soft pink scarf.
Head turned away.
I stop breathing.
---
"Do you like it?" he says without looking up.
My heart slams against my ribs.
He knew.
He knows.
I force a laugh. "That's me?"
He shrugs. "I draw what I can't forget."
A pause.
He finally looks up, eyes sharp like mirrors.
"I've seen you," he says quietly. "You move like… you're hiding something."
I smile — not the sweet kind.
The kind that comes with a warning.
"And what if I am?"
He smiles back, and it feels like war.
"Then I'll keep watching."
---
That night, I don't sleep.
I pull out the notebook. Flip past flames and lessons, blood dots and names crossed out. I reach a clean page and write:
> Lesson six: Some threats don't come with knives.
They come with eyes that refuse to look away.
I draw a camera lens.
Then I shade it dark.
Like it's blinking.
Like it knows.