Kyu

Sue stared at the photos. Airport. Friday afternoon. Grocery store. Saturday, 3:47 PM. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Her mind didn’t see the images. It replayed the moments. The airport. He’d bent down at the same time she had. Their hands touching. His eyes calm. No panic. No excitement. Just… steady. The grocery store. The same calm. Same coincidence. Same presence. He’d stood beside her like he belonged there. Walked beside her under that tiny umbrella. Two encounters. Two leaks. Her stomach tightened. She wanted to believe it was random. But the industry had trained her out of believing in random things. Jen leaned closer. “Sue?” Sue’s voice was quiet. Too quiet. “It was him.” Jen blinked. “What?” “Sam.” She didn’t look away from the screen. “He was there both times. And both times… these photos appeared.” Jen frowned. “But there’s no photos of you two together.” Sue’s jaw flexed. Exactly. He’d stayed out of frame. Careful. Invisible. Smart. “He knew,” she whispered. “He knew exactly how close to stand. How to stay unseen.” Jen hesitated. “Sue… are you sure? He didn’t seem like—” “Like what?” Sue cut in sharply. Jen swallowed. “Like someone who’d do this.” Sue finally looked at her. Her eyes weren’t angry. They were tired. “They never do,” she said. Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, but she didn’t let it break. She locked the phone and set it down beside her. For a brief, dangerous moment, she remembered his face under the umbrella. The way he’d shifted it toward her without thinking. The way he’d stepped into the rain so she wouldn’t have to. Her chest tightened. She crushed the feeling immediately. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford anymore.