--- Chapter 3: Static Between us

Lena hadn’t painted in days.

Her brushes sat stiff in cloudy water, like wilted flowers long forgotten. The big canvas in the corner leaned against the wall with quiet judgment, still untouched. Every time she looked at it, she felt the pressure to create, to express—but all her inspiration had narrowed into one thing. One person.

Kai.

Their conversations had become ritual. Morning greetings, midnight thoughts. He sent voice notes now—low, almost whispering, as if afraid the world might overhear what was meant only for her. His voice had a strange gravity to it—deep, slow, full of something heavy and warm. She played them over and over in the dark, the hum of his breath filling the silence between her own.

“When I close my eyes,” he said in one, “your work burns behind my eyelids. It’s like I’ve seen it before. Or maybe I dreamed it. Either way, I can’t forget it.”

She hadn’t shown him much. A few older pieces online. Nothing new. But he spoke about her art like he had stood in her studio, touched her canvas, breathed her thoughts.

No one else ever did that. Not her professors. Not her friends. Not even the gallery curator who once praised her style but called her work “emotionally reserved.”

But Kai? He saw her.

That’s what made it feel real.

Even if she hadn’t seen his full face yet—he never turned his camera on. Always said the lighting was bad, or that he looked a mess. Still, Lena felt connected. Addicted, even.

Until one night.

The city outside was muted, fog pressing against her windows. She was lying on her couch, wrapped in her blanket, when the message came.

“Why haven’t you shown me your face?”

The question was simple. Innocent, even. But it hit her like a needle.

She stared at her screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. She could almost hear his voice asking it—soft, curious. But something in her spine stiffened.

She typed back:

“I like the mystery.”

A pause. Then a reply.

Just a single emoji:

Eyes. Watching.

Her skin prickled.

That night, something tugged at the back of her mind. A thought she couldn’t shake. So she did what she hadn’t done in weeks—she went back through his profile. Scrolling past the moody street photos, the abstract colors, the blurry self-portraits.

And there it was.

An image posted early on—months before he ever followed her. A strange composition of red and grey, abstract and raw. It struck her with a jolt.

She had drawn that.

Not exactly, but close—eerily close. Her version sat in her sketchbook. She flipped through it, fingers trembling slightly, until she found the page. Dated. Signed. Quiet proof.

She had never posted it. Never shared it.

Her chest tightened.

She stared at his image again. Her fingers hovered over her screen.

Was it coincidence? Inspiration? Or something else?

She didn’t message him that night. For the first time, she left him on read.

And when her phone buzzed an hour later—his name lighting up the screen—she didn’t feel excitement.

She felt watched.

She felt hunted.

She felt known in a way that suddenly didn’t feel like love at all.

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