Page 56 of Fractured Loyalties
I nod once.
She moves to the next. Another day. A blur of movement caught in the reflection of a café window. She clicks a few more.
“You watched me through these,” she says. “Not all in real time. Some you pulled after the fact. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I close the folder. Her head snaps toward me, but I don’t explain yet. I just stand. Walk slowly toward the glass doors leading to the deck.
She doesn’t follow.
“I wanted to know the shape of you,” I say. “Not just what you said. Or did. But how you moved. How you folded in on yourself when you walked alone. How you never once looked over your shoulder, even when you should have.”
She steps closer. Still behind me. Close enough for me to feel it.
“I wanted to be the man who knew the difference between your fear and your fatigue. Who could look at a grainy still and say, no—she’s not tired. She’s bracing.”
She speaks quietly. “And you needed pictures for that?”
“I needed everything.”
The silence that follows isn’t judgment. It’s weight.
Then she says, “You’ve memorized more of me than I’ve ever looked at myself.”
I turn to face her.
Her eyes meet mine, not flinching.
“I don’t know if that makes me feel exposed,” she says, “or understood.”
“Both.”
And I don’t ask for forgiveness.
Because I wouldn’t give it back.
She doesn’t look away.
So I don’t either.
Her arms are still crossed, but something about her stance softens. She leans a shoulder against the glass, eyes flicking down like she’s trying to place herself inside the versions I’ve captured.
“How long?” she asks.
I know what she means.
“For almost six months now. Since the day I saw you sitting alone on that bench.”
She blinks once. “That long?”
“I didn’t plan it that way.”
“But you didn’t stop either.”
“No.”
