Page 65 of In Shadows We Dance

Click. Her hesitation at the edge of the sidewalk, as though she’s testing the boundaries of her world.

Click. The tension in her shoulders when someone knocks into her.

Every moment is mine now. Every glance, every stolen second where she tries to be more than a shadow.

In the library, I move behind her, my footsteps silent. She doesn't see me between the stacks, doesn't know how close I am—close enough to reach out, to touch.

Click. The tilt of her head as she scans a row of books.

Click. Her fingers trailing along the spines, tentative, like she’s afraid to leave a mark.

Click. The way her lips part when she says thank you to the librarian, her voice louder than usual.

She’s starting to want more—I canfeelit. Each photograph tells the story of her slow rebellion, every movement a whisper of what she almost becomes before she remembers to stay invisible.

In the grocery store, she pauses at a display of party dresses. It takes every bit of control not to let her know I’m here when I see the hunger in her eyes. Three feet away, her fingers hover over blue silk. One step, and I could be there, wrapping my hand around her throat, showing her exactly what she does to me.

The urge nearly snaps me in half. Instead, I raise my camera.

Click. The tremble in her fingers as she touches the dress.

Click. Her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

Is she imagining herself in something other than shapeless clothes meant to hide her?

Click. The instant her eyes darken, remembering she’s supposed to be invisible.

She moves away quickly, but I stay where I am, touching the dress where her fingers had been moments before. I’ll buy it after she leaves.

My fingers trace the spaces between aisles as I follow, staying just out of sight. She’s looking around more now, making me work harder to stay hidden—checking over her shoulder,feelingme.

Can she sense me?The perfect prey, unaware of where to look but certain a predator is near.

She fumbles with her grocery list, and I’m close enough to read it over her shoulder. The precise handwriting. Probably written by her father. Basic items. Nothing that would draw attention. Everything about their life was built to make them disappear into the background. Make them forgettable.

But she’s not forgettable to me. Not anymore.

Click. How she reaches for items with careful fingers, avoiding contact.

Click. Her head bowed at the checkout, exact change in hand.

Click. The moment she steps into the sunlight, her eyes squinting, unfamiliar with brightness.

I let her get ahead. Her shoulders are tense, and she stays close to the buildings on her way home. My eyes never leave her—can she feel the burn of my gaze?

Soon, pretty Ballerina. Soon you’ll feel more than just my eyes.

The dress is mine as soon as she disappears. The salesgirl barely glances at me—a guy buying a gift, predictable, ordinary. People see what they expect.

If only they knew.

I drive past Ileana’s apartment and check she’s inside … where else would she be? Then head home, where I spend hours in the darkroom, processing the photographs I’ve taken.

Each one reveals her growing awareness of the cage she’s been living in. It’s delicious, arousing, but not enough. I need more.

I need her to know I’ve been watching.

I’m in my car and parked at the end of her street by the time the moon rises, and that’s where I stay. Watching, and waiting for the right moment.

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