Watching her

Have you ever believed in fate, something so mysterious and thrilling and terrifying it could be the meaning to so much that happens to you and others?

Have you ever believed in fate bringing two people together?

Two people with a destiny.

Two people meant for each other.

Two people meant to do something that would affect their own lives, or the lives of others, or be the dominos to an event that in a small or large way be cataclysmic.

Rubbish. I know right.

I don’t believe in fate.

It’s something that can be tied with coincidence and timing and irony.

But sometimes it’s not even that.

Sometimes, I think it’s just plain stalking.

For that past two and a half weeks, everywhere I went, I saw her.

Across the street, texting on her phone or looking down the street as if she’s waiting for someone. In the same carriage car on the train, looking down at her twiddling thumbs or the shoes of the other bored passengers. The supermarket with an empty basket that never gets filled, and ends up leaving without purchasing a thing. My favourite coffee stand by the park with the undercover chairs, where I sit and read the paper on one side, and she does the same. Then there’s the pub me and my mates go to every Tuesday and Friday. She was there last Friday night, sitting at the bar by herself from within an hour of me getting there, and leaving almost as soon as I do, taking the train home where she sits at the other end of the carriage pretending she has taken interest in the maps and advertisements on the walls.

I stay home that weekend. I had brought my groceries during this week so didn’t have to go out while it was raining, so the meteorologists on the news predict. During that time, I decided study my pretty shadow without her knowing it.

As I thought, she was outside. Standing at the bus stop on her phone. However, she was looking at the door of my building. Around this time, I would be going out for my Saturday jog. Today, I decided not to today, thinking I could not waste this opportunity.

She was pretty.

Golden blonde hair that was usually straight with long bangs, however the rainy weather had made it more frazzled that usual. She had bright eyes and fair skin, pink full lips that reminded me of rose petals. A lovely face that was heart shaped and innocent. She stood undercover with a plain black umbrella at her side, though it appeared as if it had not even been used, tell me she actually used the bus in the morning. She wore a navy coat that would protect her underclothing from the rain, a pair of blue jeans, tan books and a white cardigan. She was nice looking. She would blend in with the crowd, which is what I think she was going for.

But it wasn’t working.

I don’t know exactly how long she had been popping up where I sat, and ate, and travelled. I don’t know how long I was oblivious to this woman. A woman who still doesn’t notice I see her glances. Her long stares. Her being wherever I go.

Now I did.

I have never seen her before.

Was she an old school friend?

Was she a neighbour and just happened to like going to the places I go to?

Was she a friend of my sister’s who always wants to know what I am doing and where I am going? That one was a probability. However, she wouldn’t be following me for over two weeks, surely.

No way that it was fate, or coincidence, or just timing that this woman happened to always be exactly where I was almost every day, at the exact time, especially when it came to coming and going.

For the next two days, the rain did not let up for the entire weekend nor did I ever leave my apartment.

Yet in that time, she was there.

On Saturday, she stayed at the bus stop for two hours. She was fidgeting. She seemed worried. Was she waiting for something that was supposed to come? The buses were on time and she caught none of them until later. Was she truly waiting for me?

On Sunday, she was there again, but she said a little further down on a park bench with her purse filled with snacks and a water bottle. She would disappear a few times down the street, sometimes coming back with more food.

She had to be waiting for me.

On Sundays I would usually be here, but around three I would be going to a touch fields and playing on the club team I joined a few years back. Since it was raining, she didn’t seem surprised that I didn’t come outside. Maybe she assumed I wouldn’t be leaving? No. Seriously? She can’t be sitting out there because of me.

By Monday, I was getting really concerned.

She was at the bus stop when I left my apartment at 7:30, looking down at her phone and staying at least twenty meters behind me. Per usual.

She was in the same carriage car as me on the 7:53am train to downtown where I worked from 9am to 5pm, trying to blend in with the other passengers. Per usual.

She went to the same coffee stand I go to each morning, ordering – as I’ve now just found out – the same style of coffee I get. As I read the paper, she ‘minded her own business’. Per usual.

From then on, I worked form 9am to 5pm without having to look over my shoulder. She would be standing on the other side of the road from my building, watching me go in. Sometimes I would look at any available window to see if she was still there like she had been on the weekend. But no, she wasn’t. She must have a job, right? Close by maybe, which is why she can be where I am when I get to work and be outside before me when I leave.

I should seek help.

I should tell someone.

I shouldn’t be intrigued to keep watching this stranger watch me.

I should be concerned. Worried for my safety. Worried for her safety. Seeing if she really is stalking me and getting her some help.

But I don’t.

Now I’m the one waiting for her.

Watching her.