Chapter Text
Penelope followed him, as usual. Always at a distance. Always in the shadows.
She knew his schedule by heart, his Wednesday coffee breaks, the days he stayed late in his office lit until ten o’clock at night. She knew which route he preferred to take home, which shop windows sometimes caught his eye. She walked a few steps behind him, switched sidewalks when he slowed down, barely holding her breath when he turned around.
She convinced herself it wasn’t obsession.
It was… attention. Love. Something she had never received.
She hadn’t always been like this. Once, she had been timid, quiet, almost invisible. Unsociable, some said. But no one becomes invisible by chance. You become it when, at home, you exist only as a comparison.
Unlike her slender, graceful sisters, she was voluptuous. Too present. Too conspicuous. A disappointment to her mother — who never failed to remind her of it. She had never truly been loved. Not really.
When she reached the age to enter university, her mother kicked her out under the pretext that she needed to “find her own voice.” She found it. At the Faculty of Letters. Literature became her refuge. She loved novels, tragedies, passionate heroines. But she was no longer naive enough to believe in fairy tales.
At least, that’s what she thought.
Colin Bridgerton. A respected literature professor, admired by students, greeted warmly by colleagues. But to Penelope, he represented more than just a good teacher.
He had been so kind to her. Not just kind. He had given her a smile, a compassionate look, made a considerate remark about her analysis of a poem. No one had ever looked at her that way. As if she mattered.
And so she had begun to follow him.
At first, it was only curiosity. He intrigued her. But very quickly, it became something else. A need. Almost a vital necessity. To know his habits. His friends. The cafés he frequented. The streets he walked.
She kept a notebook, where she recorded everything she could observe. The notebook was always in her bag. Black cover. Discreet. No one would have paid attention to it. It contained all his routines:
Monday : 8:42
-Arrived with a coffee. Brown cup. No sugar (checked at the cafeteria).
-Light blue shirt. Sleeves rolled up at 10:15.
-Smiled while explaining Shakespeare. Genuine smile.
Wednesday : 17:58
-Left later than usual. Seemed tired.
-Rubbed his neck while leaving his office.
- Didn’t speak to anyone while going down the stairs.
She wrote without trembling. It wasn’t espionage. It was precision.
She wanted to understand his rhythms, his moods, his silences. She was convinced that no one watched him with as much attention as she did. No one loved him with as much patience.
The notebook filled up, and the more it filled, the more she felt she existed.
She knew it wasn’t normal. Normal people don’t hide behind bus stops to watch someone laugh. But she was no longer sure she wanted to be normal.
She only hoped that one day, maybe, he would share her feelings.
But that day, something went wrong.
That Friday, he should normally have left the faculty as usual and gone straight home. Alone. ALONE. But that day?
He wasn’t alone.
He should have been. He always was. Yet at his side walked a woman, laughing near him. A woman elegant, confident. Mixed-race, tall, slender — taller than Penelope would ever be, even on heels.
She was radiant. Natural. Effortless.
Penelope lowered her eyes to her own reflection in a shop window. Shoulders too broad. Figure too full. Coat too plain.
When she looked up, she saw the woman’s hand
brushing against Colin’s arm with an unbearable familiarity.
And he was smiling.
That smile he had never given her.
Something cracked inside her. Slowly. Silently.
Like fine porcelain dropped and shattered without a sound.