Elijah's POV
It began with flowers.
Every morning, just before sunrise, a fresh bouquet was waiting at the front counter of Bloom & Bliss. Daisies first. Then white tulips. Then a bundle of lavender wrapped in silk ribbon.
Mama Reem assumed it was a customer smitten by Aria's beauty but too shy to say so. "You've got an admirer, sweetheart," she'd say with a wink, handing her the cardless flowers.
Aria would simply blink, offer a small smile, and gently place the bouquet in the corner beside the shop window. Her sea-glass eyes always lingered on the petals longer than necessary. Something about the scent… the choices. They felt familiar. Like a memory half-remembered.
She didn't know Elijah was the one leaving them.
He never signed the cards. Never stayed long enough to be seen. He'd slip into the shop at 4:30 a.m., speak briefly with Mama Reem's night assistant, leave payment in cash, and vanish before Aria arrived.
Then, he'd sit across the street.
Sometimes in his car. Sometimes on the bench by the newspaper stand, a book in hand he never really read.
He watched her with reverence. With hunger. With guilt that threaded every breath he took.
He saw everything the way her fingers delicately brushed pollen from petals, the way she smiled at children, the way she bit her lip when she was lost in thought. She was quiet sunlight. Still his Aria, even after all these years.
He watched the pain, too, the way she winced when her back ached from too many shifts, the way her hand trembled slightly after carrying heavy boxes, how she pressed her fingers to her temples when no one was looking. And he ached with her. As if her wounds were etched into his skin.
He learned her patterns. When she left work. When she arrived at the diner. What booth she wiped first. When she smiled, how it never reached her eyes.
He paid her rent.
The landlord, a wiry man with a smoker's cough, never asked questions after Elijah wired a year's worth of payments anonymously.
He had her refrigerator stocked every Thursday night fruits, bread, a carton of almond milk, two bottles of spring water. Always the same. Always what she'd once said she loved.
He installed cameras in the building hallway, had security patrol pass by nightly, and arranged for her locks to be changed without her ever knowing.
He watched her as she walked home.
Three steps behind. Never too close. A shadow beneath the streetlamps. When stray dogs barked, he stayed closer. When she paused by the alley, he stilled with her. Once, when a drunk man stumbled too near, Elijah was there - silent, towering, a wall between her and the world.
Sometimes, she stopped to stare at the stars.
And he would too.
"I'm still here," he'd whisper to no one. "I never left."
At the diner, the waitresses gossiped in the back.
"Have you seen that guy again?" Trish whispered, nudging Lena.
"The tall one in the suit? Oh yeah," Lena grinned. "Every night this week. Always orders tea. Never drinks it. Just stares at the silent one."
"Creepy?"
"No. Not like that. It's… different. Like he's praying."
Elijah sat in booth 11. Far enough not to spook her. Close enough to see the shadow of her hair swaying as she passed.
He never approached.
Not yet.
He told himself he was waiting for the right moment, but deep down, he feared he might break the fragile peace she had carved out of chaos. That his presence would ruin her calm.
When her manager snapped too harshly, Elijah made a call. The man was transferred to a less pleasant district the next morning.
When Aria cut her hand on a broken plate, Elijah sent a first-aid kit with the night cleaner.
When the tips were low, he paid anonymously. Enough to double her night's pay. Always under a different name.
He watched her read menus and smile gently at guests, even when they didn't tip. He saw her give leftovers to stray cats outside. He saw her kindness bloom in silence.
He wondered what she dreamed of.
He wondered if she remembered him.
Sometimes, late at night, he sat outside her apartment. A single candle would glow in her window. And in the room across from hers, he sat behind tinted glass or on the rooftop, silent, always watching.
He saw her sit by her window, sketching in her Elijah's POV
It began with flowers.
Every morning, just before sunrise, a fresh bouquet was waiting at the front counter of Bloom & Bliss. Daisies first. Then white tulips. Then a bundle of lavender wrapped in silk ribbon.
Mama Reem assumed it was a customer smitten by Aria's beauty but too shy to say so. "You've got an admirer, sweetheart," she'd say with a wink, handing her the cardless flowers.
Aria would simply blink, offer a small smile, and gently place the bouquet in the corner beside the shop window. Her sea-glass eyes always lingered on the petals longer than necessary. Something about the scent… the choices. They felt familiar. Like a memory half-remembered.
She didn't know Elijah was the one leaving them.
He never signed the cards. Never stayed long enough to be seen. He'd slip into the shop at 4:30 a.m., speak briefly with Mama Reem's night assistant, leave payment in cash, and vanish before Aria arrived.
Then, he'd sit across the street.
Sometimes in his car. Sometimes on the bench by the newspaper stand, a book in hand he never really read.
He watched her with reverence. With hunger. With guilt that threaded every breath he took.
He saw everything the way her fingers delicately brushed pollen from petals, the way she smiled at children, the way she bit her lip when she was lost in thought. She was quiet sunlight. Still his Aria, even after all these years.
He watched the pain, too, the way she winced when her back ached from too many shifts, the way her hand trembled slightly after carrying heavy boxes, how she pressed her fingers to her temples when no one was looking. And he ached with her. As if her wounds were etched into his skin.
He learned her patterns. When she left work. When she arrived at the diner. What booth she wiped first. When she smiled, how it never reached her eyes.
He paid her rent.
The landlord, a wiry man with a smoker's cough, never asked questions after Elijah wired a year's worth of payments anonymously.
He had her refrigerator stocked every Thursday night - fruits, bread, a carton of almond milk, two bottles of spring water. Always the same. Always what she'd once said she loved.
He installed cameras in the building hallway, had security patrol pass by nightly, and arranged for her locks to be changed without her ever knowing.
He watched her as she walked home.
Three steps behind. Never too close. A shadow beneath the streetlamps. When stray dogs barked, he stayed closer. When she paused by the alley, he stilled with her. Once, when a drunk man stumbled too near, Elijah was there - silent, towering, a wall between her and the world.
Sometimes, she stopped to stare at the stars.
And he would too.
"I'm still here," he'd whisper to no one. "I never left."
At the diner, the waitresses gossiped in the back.
"Have you seen that guy again?" Trish whispered, nudging Lena.
"The tall one in the suit? Oh yeah," Lena grinned. "Every night this week. Always orders tea. Never drinks it. Just stares at the silent one."
"Creepy?"
"No. Not like that. It's… different. Like he's praying."
Elijah sat in booth 11. Far enough not to spook her. Close enough to see the shadow of her hair swaying as she passed.
He never approached.
Not yet.
He told himself he was waiting for the right moment, but deep down, he feared he might break the fragile peace she had carved out of chaos. That his presence would ruin her calm.
When her manager snapped too harshly, Elijah made a call. The man was transferred to a less pleasant district the next morning.
When Aria cut her hand on a broken plate, Elijah sent a first-aid kit with the night cleaner.
When the tips were low, he paid anonymously. Enough to double her night's pay. Always under a different name.
He watched her read menus and smile gently at guests, even when they didn't tip. He saw her give leftovers to stray cats outside. He saw her kindness bloom in silence.
He wondered what she dreamed of.
He wondered if she remembered him.
Sometimes, late at night, he sat outside her apartment. A single candle would glow in her window. And in the room across from hers, he sat behind tinted glass or on the rooftop, silent, always watching.
He saw her sit by her window, sketching in her notebook. Drawing small things: flowers, stars, sometimes faces. One night, he recognized himself in the soft outline of a boy beneath a hoodie, shadowed beside a dumpster.
He wept that night, silently.
She hadn't forgotten.
Inside her apartment, she sometimes paused, hand resting against her chest like something hurt without bleeding. She'd look out the window. Not searching. Just... longing.
She didn't know he was watching. That every blink she took became sacred in his mind. That her every sigh was a song he remembered.
He whispered into the night, a vow only the moon could hear.
"I'll never let you disappear again. Not even if you ask me to."
And in the silence, the city held its breath with him.
notebook. Drawing small things: flowers, stars, sometimes faces. One night, he recognized himself in the soft outline of a boy beneath a hoodie, shadowed beside a dumpster.
He wept that night, silently.
She hadn't forgotten.
Inside her apartment, she sometimes paused, hand resting against her chest like something hurt without bleeding. She'd look out the window. Not searching. Just... longing.
She didn't know he was watching. That every blink she took became sacred in his mind. That her every sigh was a song he remembered.
He whispered into the night, a vow only the moon could hear.
"I'll never let you disappear again. Not even if you ask me to."
And in the silence, the city held its breath with him.