Every day I passed through those glass doors, heart hammering in my chest. The polished floor made my footsteps ring out, too loud, too sharp, like everyone could hear how out of place I was. The receptionist gave me a nod, a polite smile, but I wasn't there for pleasantries. I was there for her—the woman whose name pulsed through my veins, the one I chased in every breath.Her office was on the top floor. I'd seen it from the elevator, the windows wide and bright, the kind of place that belonged to someone untouchable. I had no invitation, no right to even stand in that hallway. But every instinct in me screamed I was supposed to be closer. That something in all that glass and light was meant for me.I spent hours in the lobby, pretending to read, pretending to wait for someone. What I really did was watch. I tracked the rhythm of her heels on the marble. Learned the way she tilted her head when she was thinking, how she barely paused in the hallway, how she never wasted a second.I knew when she took her coffee, which employees she smiled at, the exact angle of her desk when she leaned back. My notebook filled with scraps—times, faces, patterns. Each detail was a thread and I clung to them, hoping they'd lead me somewhere real.Sleep was a stranger. Nights were a mess of her face, her voice, the feeling of standing just outside a life I couldn't touch. I told myself I was just being careful, just gathering information. But I couldn't lie to myself for long. Every glimpse of her fanned something wild inside me. I was hungry for more than food.Lunch hours became surveillance. I wandered the streets around her building, window shopping with empty pockets, watching her slip into her favorite café, seeing which corner she picked for calls, which receptionist she trusted with a smile.I wrote it all down. My notebook was a mess of times, places, gestures, half-formed prayers. Sometimes I tore out pages, disgusted at how desperate I sounded. But I couldn't stop. The need kept burning.One afternoon, I saw her laughing with a colleague by the elevators. Sunlight caught her hair, her hand moving as she spoke. I wanted to step forward, say her name, just once. But I froze. Fear and longing knotted together. I stood there, invisible.I realized then that it was never just about getting close. It was about her—the mother I'd lost, the life that was always just out of reach. Every rejection, every empty day, every hungry night had led me here. Still, I was on the outside, face pressed to the glass, wanting what I couldn't claim.That night I walked home with my stomach aching, exhaustion dragging at my bones. I hadn't eaten since morning, but I barely noticed. My mind was full of her. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, whispering, "I'll find a way. I'll make her see me."Sleep was broken by dreams—her face in the sun, her voice calling my name, or maybe it was just me calling for her. When I woke, nothing had changed except how much I needed this. I would get closer. I had to. Every plan, every risk, every hungry day was for this: one step nearer, one day closer to the truth I'd chased for years.Johannesburg was still huge and cold and full of threats I couldn't see coming. But she was here. That made every street, every shadow, every ache worth it.So I waited. Watching. Learning. Restless. Hopeful. Hungry for something that finally felt like it mattered
