3

Edgar Torn.

Since that day in the bookstore, I could not stop thinking about one thing...

Sarah.

Her name kept repeating in my head in a way that I was unable to contain, much less ignore.

Since that day at the bookstore, something inside me had changed. It was as if... as if an old device had been turned back on.

It was as if a dormant part were being awakened, pulling back Amanda’s memories.

The way she spoke, even the flashes in her eyes, even when she wrote her name, that soft, calm way.

Everything reminded me of Amanda.

Not in the exact sense—she wasn't a copy; she wasn't a duplicate face. It was worse. It was as if Sarah had the same essence as Amanda. The thing that no one else saw. The thing that only I knew about her. The little details, things that only I paid attention to.

I spent two days remembering the scene in my mind: her smile, the sound of her sweet, calm voice. The brief warmth of her presence.

I felt alarmed, as if something was falling. It was not just curiosity about why she made me feel that way - it was an urgency to be close to her, to have her in my field of vision.

I needed to know her better.

But how? How do you approach someone you barely know?

I was out of practice with this kind of thing. The women I talked to were coworkers or students—formal, professional interactions. My family was distant. My cousin always asked me to go out, but I made excuses. And my only close friend... well, he was always more sociable than me. He was the type to strike up conversations with strangers in line at the grocery store. Not me.

But there was something I knew how to do well. Observe.

That's how it was with Amanda. I saw her every day at school. She was popular, smiled at everyone. But she never looked at me the way I looked at her. I watched over her from afar. I noticed when she was sad, when she left late, when some boy tried to take advantage of her. I stayed close by. Silent, attentive, constant. It was my way of protecting her.

With Sarah, it would be the same.

Wanted to know everything about her, where she went, who she talked to, what she liked besides writing.

I created a fake Instagram account. Nothing special—a generic image, few followers, no posts. I followed some book pages, writers, and ordinary female profiles, just to look real. And then I found her profile.

@sarathompson.fantasy

Of course. It had to have fantasy in the name.

She posted a lot. Books, cafés, excerpts from her work, candid photos with friends. And stories. Plenty of stories.

In one of the posts, she appeared having lunch at a cozy restaurant, with the location tagged and the caption - Nothing better than lunch with your friends.

She was eating a simple dish. She was smiling, and that smile awakened something in me. I felt my heart race and a chill in my stomach.

I looked at her face one more time and then got up, determined.

I grabbed my car keys and left.

I put on a black cap with a low brim and chose a dark T-shirt. I entered the restaurant pretending to be distracted, ordered some meal — I don't even remember what — and looked for her with my eyes.

It took less than a minute to find her.

She was sitting with a couple, a dark-haired guy with curly hair and a blonde girl with a lively voice.

They were laughing loudly. They were toasting with soda as if they were celebrating something. And there she was in the middle, with that same smile from the day of the launch. She was beautiful. It wasn't a scandalous kind of beauty; it was a quiet beauty that slowly captivated you.

With light hair below her shoulders, she had light eyes and a warm smile.

I sat a few tables back, partially hidden by a pillar. I didn't want her to see me. I watched as she ate slowly, paying more attention to her than to my plate.

Sara gestured a lot when she spoke. Even her laugh was sweet. She was slightly awkward, pulling her hair behind her ear, laughing with her eyes closed. She was happy.

And I... I felt at peace just watching her.

When they finished eating, they got up to pay the bill. I got ready to leave too, standing up slowly, trying to act natural.

She paid the bill and her friends paid theirs; they said goodbye to her, I took a step forward, it was my turn.

That's when it happened.

She bumped into my arm.

I felt a light tap on my arm. I have frozen, looking at the floor.

“Oh, I'm sorry!” she said quickly, touching my shoulder lightly.

I slowly raised my face. Our eyes met.

She hesitated for a moment. She looked at me. Those eyes seemed to be searching for something.

Maybe recognizing me?

Then she smiled gently, came just a little closer to me.

"Are you really all right? I didn’t hurt him?" she asked, whispering, looking at my arm where she bumped into me.

I confirmed with the head.

"Yes, it’s all right, it was nothing," I replied softly, I looked away from her for a moment.

She stopped for a second, as if she wanted to say something else. But then she waved goodbye and left the restaurant.

I stood there, watching her leave.

She didn't recognize me. Or, if she did, she didn't want to show it. Perhaps because she was surrounded by people. Possibly because my presence meant nothing... yet.

But that was enough.

That look, even if brief, even if confused—it was a start.

For the first time in a long time, something made sense.

Something was making me want to move.

And the name for that... was Sarah.