Rain Chen's Point of View
She walks like nothing ever touched her.
Like the world never left fingerprints on her skin.
Like I didn't ruin her ten years ago.
And that—
that drives me mad.
Sky Maddox, draped in cashmere and moonlight, heels clicking against the marble of her high-rise lobby, ponytail swaying like silk. Her sunglasses are too big for her small face. Her coat is cream. Her lips, glossed. Her smile, distracted.
She hums when she walks.
A soft, fluttery thing.
I remember that sound.
I remember the night she played records on the floor of our shitty apartment, barefoot and seventeen, spinning in my T-shirt, laughing.
She used to hum to hide the silence.
To pretend she wasn't scared.
But now she hums like a woman who thinks the world belongs to her.
It's cute.
She doesn't know I'm behind her.
Seven paces. Always seven.
She doesn't know I watched her buy those macarons from that café with the pink awning.
Doesn't know I memorized the way she tilts her head when she orders in French—still perfect, still soft.
Doesn't know I waited outside the parking garage while she stood in front of her car, on the phone with him. Her precious baby boy.
"My sweet boy," she said.
That voice. That tone.
I used to be the only one she spoke to like that.
---
She pauses.
Right outside the boutique.
Turns her head.
Not fully. Just… slightly. Brows furrow.
She felt it.
The way animals feel danger in their bones before their brains do.
Good girl.
But she doesn't see me.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, flashes a wary smile to no one, and slips inside the store.
Thinks she's imagining it.
Just a ghost. A shadow. A flicker.
That's how I like it.
I press a palm against the cool glass of the boutique window.
Watch her glide between rows of silk dresses and crystal heels.
She laughs with the clerk. She twirls once in front of the mirror.
And I watch.
Like I used to.
When she didn't know anyone else could want her.
When she thought she was mine.
---
She steps out twenty minutes later, one shopping bag in hand, phone to her ear.
She's talking to Sebastian again. That sweet, baby voice she reserves only for him.
He doesn't deserve it.
He doesn't deserve her.
He'll wreck her the way I did.
He already is.
I'll let him.
Let him run her heart through a paper shredder.
And when she's bleeding—
when that sparkle in her eyes starts to dim—
I'll be there.
In the shadows.
Like always.
---
She gets into her car.
Pauses.
Her eyes flick to the mirror.
Again. That pause. That unease.
She feels me.
But she doesn't see me.
Not yet.
She drives away.
And I follow.
---
Sky, sweetheart.
You're starting to look over your shoulder.
Good.
That means it's almost time.
To say hello again.