5 years ago!

Isabella - 15 years old

Unknown guy - 18 years old

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The street was quiet, blanketed in white, snow falling in slow motion. A faint golden glow spilled from the café windows, mingling with the icy air.

Snowflakes drifted lazily under the dim glow of the streetlights, and the cold pressed sharp against his skin. He was walking fast, his scarf tugged high around his face, his breath a visible cloud. She came from the opposite direction, head lowered, clutching a paper bag to her chest, her cheeks kissed pink by the winter cold. He was moving quickly, head down, lost in his own thoughts when it happened-

...A sudden collision....

Her shoulder struck his chest, the force making her bag slip, apples scattering and bouncing across the frozen pavement. She gasped, falling to her knees to gather them, strands of hair spilling free from beneath her hat.

He froze.

The world seemed to vanish, swallowed whole by the sight of her. His eyes dragged over every detail-her trembling hands brushing the snow from the fruit, the faint blush in her cheeks from the cold, the way her breath fogged the air.

And then-her eyes lifted.

Blue. Soft. Startled. A simple glance, but it hit him like a blow to the chest. His pulse surged violently, heat roaring through his veins despite the bitter winter. Something inside him twisted, snapped-an ache, sharp and raw, demanding her.

"Sorry..." she whispered, clutching the apples to her chest. Her voice was barely audible, yet it sank deep into him, curling around his ribs, digging into his heart.

He crouched, picking up one apple, his hand brushing against hers. The contact was fleeting, but it burned. He didn't want to let go. Didn't want the moment to end.

It's like Time has stopped for him.

Her eyes-wide, startled-lifted to his once again. For a single, devastating second, he forgot to breathe. Those eyes weren't just pretty; they owned him.

He couldn't look away. Couldn't blink. His chest tightened, heat burning through the cold air. She was... everything. A stranger, yes, but no-she wasn't. She couldn't be. She felt carved out of his very bones, as if the universe had dragged her here for him, only him.!!!

His voice came low, rough, trembling with something dangerous. He leaned in, too close, eyes locked on her as if they had the right. "Don't apologize. If this moment didn't happen, I think I would've gone my whole life... never knowing what I was missing. If you hadn't bumped into me, I might never have seen you. And I can't imagine..." He paused, his gaze locking so fiercely onto hers that it was almost unbearable. "...not knowing you exist."

She blinked, a faint, soft, nervous laugh escaping as she tucked her hair behind her ear. But he wasn't laughing. He couldn't. He memorized it-burned it into his mind. Every detail. The pink in her cheeks, the way her lashes trembled, the fragile grip of her fingers around the apple. His chest was too tight, his thoughts spiraling, already binding her to him in a way that felt irreversible.

He felt the hook sink deep inside his chest. There was no going back. She wasn't just some girl. She was his. She just didn't know it yet.

As she stood, shifting awkwardly, adjusting her bag, ready to walk away, he rose too - his hand twitched at his side, aching to stop her, heart hammering, eyes dark, already planning, already certain. His breath caught in his throat, eyes fixed like a predator on prey that dared to walk away. He couldn't let her disappear into the winter night.

'Not when she had just become the only thing he wanted'.

Because he knew it already-

This wasn't a chance.

This was fate.

And fate wasn't something he was willing to let slip into the snow.

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Five Years Later.....

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The city had moved on. Buildings shifted, cafés changed names, new people filled the streets. But not him. He hadn’t moved on at all. She was still here. Older, sharper, stronger perhaps — but to him, she was still the girl from that snowy night.

Five winters had passed since the night he first touched her hand in the snow — five winters of him trailing her shadow like it was the only map he needed. She never knew. She never saw. But he had been there. Always!!

For five years, he never let her slip away.

He learned her rhythms the way most people learn their own heartbeat. He knew which mornings she stopped for coffee, which nights she stayed late at work, which windowsill light flickered in her apartment when she couldn’t sleep. Every friend’s face, every place she thought was private — all of it catalogued, all of it his.

On birthdays, he stood across the street, watching her laugh with friends through the glow of restaurant windows. On lonely nights, he lingered outside her building, catching glimpses of her framed in lamplight, curled on her couch, reading. When she cried once, shoulders shaking in her car, he had been there too — so close he could have knocked on her window, but he didn’t. He simply clenched his fists until his knuckles went white, whispering to himself: I’m here. I’ll never leave you alone.

Every year, every season, she lived her life.

And every year, every season, he lived only to watch hers.

Tonight, snow fell again, just like that first night. She stepped out of a bookstore, scarf tight around her neck, a bag of books cradled to her chest — just like before. His heart slammed against his ribs. Time hadn’t dulled her, hadn’t changed the way she looked beneath the halo of winter streetlamps. To him, she was untouched by years, still glowing, still his miracle.

From across the street, his eyes never left her. He memorized the way her breath fogged in the cold, the way her boots pressed tiny marks into the snow. Five years of watching, and yet seeing her still felt like the first time — sharp, electric, suffocating.

He whispered under his breath, voice trembling.

“You don’t know it, do you? That every step you’ve taken, I’ve been behind you. That every night you thought you were alone, my eyes were on you. You belong to me still, just as much as that night you fell into my arms.”

She looked up suddenly, scanning the street as though she felt something — that weight of unseen eyes. His pulse froze. For the briefest second, her gaze seemed to land near him. He stayed perfectly still in the shadows, breath held, heart hammering.

And then she shook it off, pulling her scarf higher, walking on.

He smiled, stepping closer, just enough to keep her in sight.

Five years of silence had proven one thing: no matter how much time passed, no matter where she went, he would always be there. Watching. Waiting. Keeping her his.

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...Character Introduction...

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...----------------...

...Name: Isabella Everhart...

...Age : 20 years old...

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...In...

...New york city...

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The winters never felt the same after that night.

Sometimes she told herself she was imagining it — the weight of eyes on her back, the faint hum of footsteps that fell into rhythm with her own before vanishing, the pull of silence thick enough to choke her in empty streets. But no amount of logic quieted the truth that lived in her bones. For five years now, a presence had been stitched into her life, patient and unrelenting, like a shadow she could never peel away.

Every birthday reminded her she wasn’t wrong.

That morning, snow drifted in lazy spirals past her window, the world outside hushed in white. She lay in bed long after waking, staring at the ceiling, already knowing what waited on the other side of her door. The anticipation was worse than the discovery itself. Her breath dragged, shallow, as she finally pushed herself up. She dressed slowly, hands trembling as she buttoned her sweater, as though buying time might make the ritual disappear.

It never did.

She paused at the door, palm hovering over the knob. For a moment, she thought she heard the soft echo of someone’s steps retreating down the stairwell. Her skin prickled, and her heart raced with the painful certainty that whoever had been here was gone only seconds before. She opened the door.

There it was.

A bouquet.

Always the same placement — not tossed or leaned carelessly, but set against the doorframe with quiet precision, as though it had been cradled into place. White lilies and red roses, bound together in paper so soft it looked like skin. No ribbon. No card. No note. Only the flowers, stark and silent against the gray hallway.

Her knees weakened. She crouched, fingers ghosting over the petals, cold from the winter air. They were always fresh, always perfect, as though chosen with the devotion of a lover. She swallowed hard. Different apartments, different addresses, yet the bouquets had never failed to find her. Every birthday morning, as though her life was marked on his calendar.

Her friends laughed about it. Teased her. Called it romantic. A mysterious admirer, too shy or too poetic to reveal himself. She forced laughter each time, even played along, because it was easier than telling them the truth — that the flowers filled her not with warmth but with dread. That when she carried them inside, her hands shook, and when she placed them in a vase, she could almost feel his breath on her skin.

The vase waited for her, like it always did. She hated herself for keeping one ready, as though she had resigned to this ritual, surrendered to its inevitability. She slid the stems into the water, the dark liquid creeping up the stalks. The lilies bent slightly, their white blooms glowing in the dim light of her kitchen. The roses bled crimson against them, a violent sort of beauty.

It wasn’t just the flowers.

It was the other things. The moments that convinced her she wasn’t crazy.

The same dark coat glimpsed at the far end of a crowded street.

Footsteps that stilled the second she turned her head.

The faint trace of cologne lingering on a stairwell she had just climbed.

The shadow in a window across from hers that vanished when she dared to look too long.

He was always there. Always waiting.

Her throat tightened. The words came out before she could stop them, whispered into the still air of her apartment:

“Why won’t you leave me alone?”

Silence. As always. But silence from him was louder than any answer.

She lifted a lily to her nose. Its fragrance seeped deep, cloying and heavy. Shame flared hot beneath her skin, because even now — even after five years of this ritual — some small, traitorous part of her still wondered. Still ached. Why her? What did he see in her that chained him so tightly? What did he want after all this time?

And most terrifying of all — why did she still remember his eyes from that snowy night? Dark, electric, almost tender. Eyes that had looked at her like she was something to be kept.

Her lips parted. Her whisper was softer this time, almost a confession.

“I know you’re there. I always know.”

Across the street, just beyond the drifting curtain of snow, a man in a dark coat stood. Motionless. Patient. He lingered only long enough to see her silhouette framed in the window, her head bent toward the flowers. Long enough to drink in the sight of her whispering to no one.

Then he turned. Not hurried, not guilty — deliberate, unhurried, as though he owned the moment. The snow swallowed him as he vanished into the white, leaving nothing behind but the bouquet on her counter, glowing like a secret, like a promise.

A promise that one day, when the moment was right, he would no longer remain unseen.

And deep inside, though her body trembled, she feared she already knew what that moment would feel like.

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