Page 16 of Watching You
I clench my jaw. “I know.”
“Then act like it.” He stands, claps my shoulder once—firm, not angry. “Whatever it is, deal with it. Fast.”
He walks off, leaving me alone with the echo of his words. Rhett’s been like a brother to me since I can remember. Both of us got accepted to play football at Northern Tennessee University, which has the best sports program in the country.
I stare at the floor, heart ticking hard.
He doesn’t know about her. About how deep she’s already in. About how I can’t stop watching her.
I’ve chased distractions before, but this isn’t that. This is something else. Something I don’t know how to walk away from.
I step out of the locker room, the door slamming shut behind me.
Left takes me to the athlete dorms. To my room. To the place with the blackout curtains, the soundproof walls, the fridge stocked with protein, and silence.
I don’t go left, I go right toward Meadow View Hall. Toward her.
I’ve got an apartment off-campus. A top-floor suite with a private elevator that was paid for in full before the semester started.
I barely sleep there, though, because Blair doesn’t live off-campus.
She lives here. Fourth floor. Corner room.
So I keep the dorm room.
Technically, just in case. In case she needs me. In case something happens. In case she spirals and no one else sees it.
She doesn’t know I’m close, but I am. Always.
I walk past Meadow View slowly, hoodie pulled up, hands in pockets.
Her light’s on. She’s in there, bent over her desk. Focused.
The lamp casts a soft glow across her cheekbones, catching the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck.
I wonder if she’s counting. If she’s organizing something or meticulously doing her school work. If she’s thinking about me.
I keep walking, but I’ll be back.
Being near her isn’t a choice anymore.
It’s a need.
I loop back after dark, long after the locker room’s emptied and the weight of practice has settled into my shoulders like a second skin. The air is cooler now, the sky bruised with the last traces of sunset, and the campus has quieted into something softer, less laughter, fewer footsteps, more shadows stretching long across the pavement.
Meadow View Hall rises ahead of me, its brick facade glowing faintly under the amber wash of the streetlights. It’s not the kind of place I should be near. Not at this hour. Not like this. But I keep walking, hands in my pockets, hood up, head down just enough to blend in without disappearing.
I know exactly where I’m going.
Her dorm is tucked in the back corner, fourth floor, left side. I memorized the window the first time I saw her silhouette framed in it—head bent, hair pulled back, posture rigid with focus. She always leaves the blinds cracked just enough to let the light spill out, like she doesn’t realize she’s offering pieces of herself to anyone who knows where to look.
I don’t glance up this time. I don’t need to. I already know she’s there.
Instead, I head for the mailboxes—those narrow metal slots lined up like confessionals just inside the front alcove. I move quietly, deliberately, the way I dowhen I’m running a two-minute drill and the whole field is watching. But no one’s watching now. No one sees me.
Her box is near the bottom. Number 412.
I pull the folded paper from my pocket—no envelope, no name, just one clean line written in black ink, the letters sharp and deliberate, like a whisper carved into skin.
