The following days blurred into a quiet ache of anticipation. She didn't see him again—at least, not at first. Then, one day, she caught sight of him again. He was seated upstairs, right along the very path she took every time she walked in or out.
She made the mistake of looking.
And then looking again.
Every time she passed, her eyes involuntarily flicked to his face. And almost every time—he noticed. Her cheeks burned, but she couldn't stop. Her clothes had changed too, subtly but intentionally. A little more thought, a little more care. She wondered if he could tell. And if he was smart—really smart—he should've figured it out by now.
And if he was really smart…He should've left.
Because if he stayed, she wasn't sure her heart would.