Another one of those ideas that came to me on a late night wander. I only have a rough idea of where this will lead, so any suggestions or feedback will as usual be greatly appreciated.


She left the bistro late last night, arms draped around the bookie, both grinning and laughing as they walked down the street, seemingly oblivious to everyone and everything else. If I didn't know better I'd have assumed they were both drunk, the way their feet would occasionally cross as neither seemed bothered about, or capable of, walking in an entirely straight line. He said something which I couldn't make out, and she laughed out loud, leaning her head back as she let out that all too familiar giggle; almost childlike, contagious - you can't help but smile when she does. There's just something about that grin that makes everything momentarily seem right with the world.

I leaned against the outside wall of the bistro, casually pretending to text a friend as I adjusted the position of the phone to just the right point so I could get a photo without making it obvious. This was a practise I was more than used to by now, which is why I was so angry at myself when the shutter clicked loudly, and I instinctively threw my arm down, hiding it behind my back in case she'd heard, my heart racing. Thankfully by now they too far away to hear anything, although I suspected even if they had, they'd barely have noticed. Her eyes barely left his as she fiddled aimlessly with the colour of his coat. My skin pricked at the sight; what I wouldn't give to have her touch me like that.

They stopped briefly outside the factory, looking upon it as though it were a masterpiece they'd built with their bare hands. "Are you absolutely sure about this?" I heard the bookie ask, his arm resting on the small of her back, her head laid softly on his shoulder. "Mmm, of course" she replied, "are you?"

"Just watch me!" He smiled, before they turned and walked away.

I watched as they got gradually further from me, still too anxious after the camera shutter incident to dare follow them. He opened their front door, gesturing for her to walk in first, like a chauffeur, or a bachelor on a first date. I couldn't see her face from where I stood, but from his reaction I can imagine her smutty response. After a few seconds her arm emerged into view again as she pulled him, by the collar, into the flat.

My heart sank.

I couldn't tell how any of this started, how she came to occupy so much of my day, how my every other thought was of her, because if I'm honest I can't remember a time when she didn't. I've loved her since that life changing day, back in school, when she'd been the only person to approach the bedraggled girl crying outside one of the science labs. She was known Carla Donovan back then, and in that tiny moment of compassion, I'd fallen immediately, hopelessly in love with her. She'd put her arm around me, straightened my jacket, and told me I was worth more than them. No one had ever been so kind to me before, and I doubt they ever will again. Of course, I'd never have the guts to talk to her again, bar a few throwaway smiles and the odd hello when we'd pass in the corridor, but I almost didn't need to. From that moment on, she'd been my life.

Losing contact with her had killed me; that lost decade I spent tirelessly searching every resource I had, desperate to track her down. Those were the darkest days of my life, and I'd almost given up until, a few years back, when her new name, accompanied by a photograph, had appeared in a local newspaper; She was taking the man who raped her to court. I sobbed for an entire day when I found out, the mere thought of what she'd been through, of what I could never have prevented, tortured me. I left it a suitable duration of time before following her; I had to get things into action. She barely left her boyfriend's house that first few days, other than to go to work, but the momentary glances I got on her journey across the street were enough back then. I had to take things slowly, and just the sight of her, knowing that despite this awful event she was alive and coping, that she had support, was enough.

It was several weeks before I took my first photograph, a casual shot from the side as she'd unlocked the doors to the factory. You won't believe me when I tell you it wasn't malicious, but I can promise it was for a purely practical reason. I knew I wouldn't be able to see her for a while - I had to go away for a week or so on family duty, and I needed something to get me through. Just a little momento, a reminder of what I would soon return to. I'd fully intended to delete it as soon as I got home, but something about the way her raven hair glinted in the light, the way she bit her lip slightly as she concentrated on turning the lock, prevented me from erasing it. It was too special, too precious to delete from history. So I kept it, among hundreds of other photos of random things: of flowers, of my dog, of humorous signs outside pubs, just tucked away. Yet somehow one photo became hundreds, and I honestly cannot explain how that happened.

I waited another hour or so on that street, until their lights had gone out and I was certain they would not resurface again until morning. Taking the long route home, I bypassed the flat, listening briefly as I tiptoed past, just to ensure that she was ok. She was sleeping soundly, or so I assumed from the peaceful silence.

"Goodnight, Carla" I said under my breath, taking my glance up at their slightly open window. "I love you".