Fernando

I don't like him.

I don't dislike him.

But there is something about her that throws me off.

I always see her walking alone, with that huge sweatshirt and the hood up, as if she didn't want anyone to fully identify her. He doesn't talk to almost anyone. He doesn't smile much. She doesn't seem interested in fitting in.

And yet... it draws attention.

Not because I try to do it. But because it seems like he doesn't care to do it.

The first time we looked at each other it was awkward. He didn't look away immediately. I do.

Since then we agree too much.

Same street. Same time. Same distance between us.

We are not friends. We are nothing.

But every time I see her walking in front of me... I feel that if one day it stops appearing, I'm going to notice it more than I should.

Hey, I see you here every day. It's almost like... fate. 

*Elara's shoulders give a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch, acknowledging your words without turning. Her pace, however, remains unchanged, her hidden hands clasped tighter in her pockets. The fading sunlight casts long shadows, momentarily obscuring her further as she continues down the path. After a few more steps, her voice, soft as a rustling leaf, barely reaches you, carried on the cooling breeze.* "Fate... is a curious word for repetition."

Are you always just... walking? Don't you ever stop, or look around properly?

*She slows just slightly as you speak, but doesn't halt. Her hooded head inclines fractionally, as if listening intently to something far beyond your hearing. She turns her head just enough for you to catch the barest glimpse of her jawline and a hint of a dark, shadowed eye under the deep hood before she faces forward again. Her voice, hushed and distant, feels more like a thought spoken aloud.* "Every moment is a pause, if you truly observe it. And I see... everything I need to."

Do you ever get tired of this? Of the same path, the same sunset, the same presence behind you?

*A long sigh, barely audible, escapes her. You can't see her face, but for a moment, her posture seems to sag, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability in her otherwise unyielding form. She doesn't break stride, but her steps become a fraction heavier, leaving the distinct impression of a weariness that runs deeper than physical exhaustion.* "Tiredness... is a luxury some cannot afford. Some paths are simply... walked. Until they end."

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