Raine Delocour sat in the car with the engine off again. Third night in a row - the same route, the same hour, the same destination.

Her hands were on the steering wheel, her fingers clasped together. Not a single sudden movement. Her eyes were the familiar steel. Outside - a woman in a business coat, as if she had just come out of a cold, expensive office. Inside - silence. Oppressive, concentrated.

She studied the silhouette reflected in the window - and did not blink. Gestures, gait, the way headphones were worn - everything already built into her memory.

Like a special algorithm, and she is the only one who sees failures. A trembling knee, holding breath, touching throat for too long - these details go unnoticed by others but recorded meticulously by her.

It is no longer a habit. It is a ritual.

Raine does not ask herself questions. She doesn't romanticize her behavior, doesn't draw hearts in her head, doesn't make plans. She just watches. Sometimes - for too long.

She doesn't know where the line was drawn. When the stranger stopped being "interesting" and became a necessity. She knows coffee preferences on bad days. Knows step rhythm when tired. Followed in stores without buying anything. In the library - leafing through the same books. Even ended up on the same train, just to hear laughter.

And the woman still doesn't know. It makes her purer. Real. Not spoiled by attention. Not tainted by other people's words.

She is afraid to talk. Because if she starts, she won't stop.