She came earlier than usual that day.
I was still arranging the morning flowers when her shadow fell across the table.
When I looked up, she wasn't smiling like she always did.
She looked… nervous.
"Do you have a moment?" she asked.
Her voice was gentle, but something in her eyes flickered—like she was rehearsing her courage.
I wiped my hands on my apron, unsure what she wanted.
"Y-Yes."
She hesitated before speaking again.
"Would you… walk with me? Just a little. I want to buy flowers for someone, but I don't know which ones."
No one had ever asked me to walk with them.
Not as a friend.
Not as anything.
A knot formed in my throat, but I nodded.
We walked side by side, slowly—
me, stiff with fear of doing something wrong,
and her, relaxed… as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
The street was quiet.
Birds resting on wires above us.
The sunlight warm but not harsh.
After a moment of silence, she said:
"You always look like you're carrying a world on your shoulders."
I lowered my gaze immediately.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing why I apologized.
She stopped walking.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Apologize for existing."
I blinked, confused.
She took a step closer, her voice a little deeper, more serious:
"You have this way… of shrinking yourself. Like you're scared of being seen. Like someone taught you that your presence is a burden."
My heart tightened painfully.
Because she was right.
Too right.
Uncomfortably right.
And no stranger should ever know that.
But she did.
"Who told you that?" she asked quietly.
I swallowed hard.
The words wouldn't come.
My voice felt locked somewhere deep behind scars I hadn't healed from.
She stepped even closer—
so close I could smell her perfume: something soft, like jasmine and morning dew.
"It's okay if you don't want to talk," she said.
"I just… want you to know I'm here. I like talking to you. I like… being around you."
Being around me?
Why?
I shook my head slightly.
"I don't understand why you're kind to me."
She smiled—small, warm, and heartbreakingly convincing.
"Maybe I just see something in you."
My chest tightened again.
Something warm—dangerously warm—spread inside me.
She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead.
Her touch was feather-light, almost hesitant.
My breath caught.
No one had touched me that gently before.
No one.
"You deserve softness," she whispered.
"Even if you don't believe it yet."
My cheeks warmed, shame and confusion twisting inside me.
"Thank you…" I managed to say.
She stepped back, giving me space again, as if she knew I might run.
"Come," she said softly.
"Help me choose flowers. I trust your taste."
I walked beside her, still shaken, still trying to understand what was happening.
I didn't know that every word she spoke, every gentle smile, every accidental touch…
was designed.
Practiced.
Timed perfectly.
Because while I saw warmth in her eyes,
there was something else behind it—
a shadow I wasn't ready to recognize yet.
But for that moment—
in that quiet street—
I believed her.
For the first time in my life,
I let myself believe
that someone might truly want me.
And that belief
was the first thread she would later rip apart.
That evening, after she walked with me to the corner of the street and said goodbye with that same gentle smile…
I went back home.
And she kept walking.
Her steps were steady.
Her expression calm.
Her fingers brushing the lavender she bought—
a lavender she didn't even like.
But the moment she turned into an empty alley…
her entire face changed.
The sweetness dissolved,
her smile faded,
and her eyes—those soft green eyes that had looked at me like I mattered—
hardened into something cold.
She took out her phone.
No hesitation.
Just a quick swipe, a tap, and then:
Jack
—typing…
She exhaled slowly, the way someone does when they remove a mask.
Then the call connected.
A familiar voice answered, low and cruel, threaded with amusement.
"So?"
Her lips curled into a smirk I had never seen.
"It's working," she said.
Her voice—once silky and tender—
now sharpened into something calculated.
"He trusts me," she continued.
"More than you said he would."
A short laugh came through the phone—Jack's laugh, dark and pleased.
"I knew it," he said.
"He's desperate. You just need to push a little more."
She rolled her eyes but kept her tone smooth.
"He's… fragile. Innocent. It's almost too easy."
Jack's voice deepened.
"Good. Make him fall for you.
Make him depend on you.
I want him broken when you're done."
She leaned against the brick wall, her green eyes unreadable, and whispered:
"He already is."
There was a silence on the line, a silence filled with satisfaction.
Then Jack spoke again, softly, chillingly:
"Remember…
I want him to think he's finally found love."
She smirked.
"Oh, he does."
"Good. Then the next part begins soon.
Don't disappoint me."
She ended the call.
The phone went dark.
Her expression stayed colder than the night around her.
She looked down the street I had walked moments earlier.
A faint softness returned to her features—
not real softness,
but the rehearsed version she wore for me like a costume.
The version that made me believe.
She tucked the phone away, pushed her hair back, and whispered to herself:
"Poor boy."
Then she walked away…
ready to play her role again tomorrow.
And I—
unaware of the darkness being woven behind my back—
was still at home
thinking about her smile
like a fool.