Obsession of a Broken Heart

This part of Rome is famous for its extremely quiet nights, which are full of tranquilly bought with blood and buried secrets. The curtains in my mansion's upper chamber are always drawn just far enough for me to see her. Isabella Mancini. There is a flat across the street. The third story. The left side's second window.

Walking as though she is oblivious of being watched, she does so slowly and softly. Maybe she does. Maybe this is why she never totally turns off the light. I enjoy it, however I question why she maintains it dim. That makes her shadow dance like a ghost.

I grip the scotch glass with my fingers. For hours without touching anything, I've been drinking like a guy adhering to his routine. Whiskey's burn used to have significance; now it just fills the gap between the seconds I'm counting.

From what I have seen, she brushes her hair thirty-two times per night. She waits until morning to do the dishes and never eats spaghetti without a glass of red wine. When she turns the pages of her old romance novels, the spines are so worn that they split. I know it died last winter as she buried her dog in the backyard. I saw her excavate the hole with trembling hands and a bottle of booze between her knees.

At that time, I ought to have turned away. But I did not.

She is not happy. Her shoulders drop and her robe over her ribcage gets tighter, which gives me a sense of it. She's beautiful, but not the way magazines depict it. Not at all. She is beautiful in the way things are broken. Stay silent. Inverted. not asking to be mended.

A moth is flitting my window. I remain still. I keep looking at her window. She's moving once more and clearing her supper. A little light from her kitchen now reflects the gold in her hair. I stand by and observe.

Then something changes.

A wind pushes her curtain through. Light pours in. Her gaze rises slowly and hesitantly.

Then she sees me.

A beat. Just one.

Her eyes, breathless distance and frozen between glass panes, met mine.

She squints.

She doesn't look around either.

The night has a way of making you feel overly exposed. The lights in my flat are still on. Walking back from the kitchen, I saw my own reflection in the window: the tired shadow under my left eye, my bare feet, and my loose shirt. I look different. I might pity them.

Before I can draw the curtain, something stops me. A little but sharp feeling travels up the back of my neck, like the ghost of a knife pressed against flesh. Though gazing out the window, I try to overlook it.

I saw him then.

A person in the window across the street. High, almost invisible behind the glass. I can feel him even should his face be formed of darkness. watching His presence is suffocating, like a cloud that fills your lungs before you realise you are choking.

For a moment, I question whether I'm dreaming. Of late, my thoughts have been playing tricks on me; with every wall creak, paranoia remains. But no. He is here. Yet. Nevertheless. I looked into his.

I freeze.

He doesn't cower or pretend to be looking at something else. There is no shame. Just silent ownership, as like he had the authority to watch me.

What is the worst?

I can't stop looking at it.

Between us, a thick and oppressive silence prevails. I hold the glass in my palms even should my hands tremble. I should rise, close the draperies, turn off the lights, and call. But I don't. To interpret a face I can't see, I only look trying to find a danger I don't yet fully grasp.

He watches in a way that seems familiar. Not acceptance. Not any. Something older than that. Something ancient.

My heart is racing. Too hard.

Finally, I turn away. Not out of dread, no. But because I am all of a sudden.

I'm terrified of what I might uncover if I continue to search.

I take a careful, deliberate step back from the window. My fingers skim the curtain's edge.

I don't close it, though.

I take another breath.

Then I turn off the lights.

But it's too late. I still feel that weight, the pressure of being seen.

It lurks under my skin.

And I know this is not complete.

She looked at me.

She saw me.

She also didn't scream. did not flinch. did not contact the police.

She just gazed. It was as though her body had sensed something her mind had not yet processed.

Hours have gone since I last left this chair. Outside her window it is now dark. The curtains are closed. The lights are off. Nevertheless, I still picture her in my mind, her bare feet pressed against the chilly floor, her breath obscuring the glass, and her eyes meeting mine as if we had an unwritten agreement.

Her name is unknown to me. Officially, no. I'll find out, but the mailboxes downstairs are fading, and half of the tags are unreadable. I usually do.

I find her fascinating. She seems to be wading through grief based on her movements. She seems to be waiting for her wine glass to communicate something back to her as she runs her fingertips over its rim. The way her shoulders droop as if she's lost the ability to maintain her composure.

She makes me think about the silent kind of pain.

And perhaps that's what appeals to me. She is lovely, but not her beauty. But another thing. Something more profound. She exudes sadness like a perfume, and I can't stop inhaling it.

I recognize the beginnings of obsession. I've been around long enough to identify the signs. insomnia. My appetite is less hunger. Nothing can scratch the ache at the back of your skull.

It's time for me to leave. Should shut the curtain and forget her name, her face, and her spectral figure in the darkness.

I won't, though.

since I must know more.

During the day, where does she go? Why doesn't she pick up her phone? Who caused her enough pain to force her to live this way?

I'm curious about everything.

And not just out of interest.

No. It's more sinister than that.

I want to be the owner of her sorrow.

The only person who witnesses her unravelling is me.

I shut my eyes. Behind my lids, her visage is charred into the shadows. I've never heard her voice, but I can picture it.

I reached for the drawer next to me. There's a little black notebook inside. I pull it open. Open a new page.

I write her name at the top.

Isabella Mancinini

I write three words beneath it: I'll be aware.

They are not brand-new binoculars. They've been with me since Naples. I used them to follow men I subsequently buried under salt and steel, mark escape routes, and analyze targets.

However, they now solely have her as their goal.

Mancini, Isabella.

She gets up at 6:47 every morning, never at 6:45 or 6:50. Timed to her heartbeat, it's a ritual. I respect the accuracy. She partially opens the blinds, but not completely. She is too exhausted to bandage the wound caused by the sun.

She is dressed in a blue robe with tattered sleeves today. Out of habit, she stirs her coffee while drinking it black. The slow, round, pointless motion tells me.

She occasionally performs music. If I lean near enough, I can hear eerie, low melodies that seep through the windowpanes. She dances occasionally. Only when she believes nobody is looking.

However, I always am.

I've committed her apartment's layout to memory. One of the framed pictures of a man, now facing away from a potted plant, was on her wall. The coffee cup whose rim was chipped. She leaves the keys on the table in the hallway.

She is more than a woman. She is a world.

And I am its darkly circling, silent moon.

I remain still. shallow breathing. observing.

Then there was motion.

A change in her window. Not her. A shadow. Short. slick. Behind her curtain, something or someone crosses.

My heart beats.

She is by herself. Never alone.

Unless she isn't.

I bend over. Modify the lens. However, the silhouette is no longer there like light flickers.

Was there anyone she invited inside?

Or had she noticed at last?

My stomach churns. Not in terror. However, something more pointed.

She should never be aware of it. Not quite yet.

It will wreck everything if she finds out now. The fine line. The practice of observing without being seen.

I bring the binoculars down. I twitch my fingers. That itch, the one that used to precede the kill, is back.

I look out the window into the darkness.

In her kitchen, she stands. Still. tense. Return to me.

She stays put.

I can tell, though, that she feels it too.

My apartment's air has changed.

It's not any colder. Not any warmer. Simply incorrect.

As if the walls are aware of something I am not.

I can't recall when it began. A week ago, perhaps. Perhaps more time. That feeling of observing something. The tingling sensation on my skin as I go by the window. How heavy the quiet feels.

During the day, I ignore it. Let's call it stress. separation. After everything with Matteo, the residual anxiety never really went away.

But I sense it at night.

I'm still checking the curtain in the shower. It's too hot for me to appreciate. My muscles remain taut, as if my body is preparing to scream, which I haven't yet done.

After that, I quickly get dressed. Put on a sweatshirt and pants. Secure my hair like a piece of amour.

I enter the living room and pause.

The swaying of the curtain.

No breeze is present. The windows are closed.

However, it moves. Only a little. Enough.

My heartbeat quickens.

I approach. Slowly. My breathing is shallow.

I stare at nothing outdoors. Just windows that are dark. rooftops. The flickering of the streetlight as usual.

My chest still clenches in some way.

I see no one. However, I sense it. That look. weighty. still there. Not nasty. Just wait.

I don't know what to do.

Staring into the blackness makes my eyes ache. I then take the drape and start closing it drawn.

But I stopped.

I have to look again.

Not on the road.

at the building facing mine.

up on the fourth floor. The left's third window.

I glare. There is no motion I see. Not a front. Not anything.

Still, I know.

I don't know how I know. But I do.

He is here.

Whoever that is.

He is watching.

Moreover, I don't think he plans to quit.