"You can't call it routine if it still breaks you a little every night."
The supérette was always quiet after midnight.Fluorescent lights hummed like something alive but disinterested.Outside, rain smeared the glass in tired streaks, melting neon into watercolor. Inside, everything was too bright.
Lina stood behind the counter, arms crossed, chin resting on her hand, watching the security feed cycle through its empty footage.
Aisle 1.Empty.Aisle 2.Empty.Entrance cam — nothing but the blink of red.Then: ding.
The sound barely echoed, but it hit her chest like a tap from inside.
She didn't mean to look up. But she always did.
He was there.Again.Like clockwork.Same hour. Same hood pulled up. Same stillness in his shoulders.And always — always — the same can of iced lemon tea in his hand.
She watched him approach the counter, slow and silent, as if walking underwater. No words. Just the sound of the drink hitting the plastic mat with a dull thud.
"2.10," she said, almost whispering.
He handed her exact change without looking. Always the same coins. Same rhythm. Same eyes that avoided hers, but not by accident.
It was ritual. Not habit.Like both of them had signed a contract neither remembered.
Tonight, she held the can a second longer before sliding it across.
"Do you ever get tired of this?" she asked.
It wasn't even a real question. Just something that slipped through a crack in the silence.
He didn't respond. But he didn't leave either.
His hand hovered over the can for a beat too long.Then — finally — he looked at her.
Not fully. Not directly.But enough to make her breath falter.
His voice was low. Soft-spoken, but clear.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
She blinked.
"I just did," she said.
A pause.
He smirked. Barely.
"To people who don't think anyone's listening."
It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't kindness either.It was observation.Like she was a page he had read before but never annotated.Like he knew exactly how many seconds passed between her questions and her regrets.
She opened her mouth.The register beeped.Thread: snapped.
He picked up the can. Nodded once.
And then — left.
The door closed behind him, a quiet finality.
Lina stood frozen for a few seconds longer than necessary.Then turned back to the screen.Rewind.Play.
He looked the same on camera. But less real. Less weighted.Like something sketched in. Too smooth to touch.
She leaned forward, squinting at the feed.Raindrops on the lens blurred the footage, distorted it.
But something felt wrong.Not him. Not what he did.
What he didn't do.
He hadn't looked up at the camera.
He always did.Not obviously. Not enough to register as awareness.But she'd noticed — in past nights — that tiny flicker upward.Tonight, nothing. No flicker. No pattern.
She tried to shake it off.But her fingers, still curled on the counter, trembled slightly.She blamed the air conditioning.
She closed the register.Swept the aisle ends.Checked the fridge temperature.Then sat in the break room with the door open.
The iced tea he bought was still stocked — twenty cans in perfect rows.
Somewhere, a compressor kicked in.Low, rhythmic. Mechanical.The kind of sound that reminded her she was still part of the real world. Barely.
She reached for her phone, but didn't unlock it.Music would just echo.Noise felt too personal tonight.
She stood again.Looked out the front glass.
The street was still.Just wet asphalt, streetlamps, and emptiness.
He was gone.
But her reflection looked like it had stayed behind.A version of her still standing at the counter, still watching the door.
She didn't know what she wanted.
Closure?A name?A change?
Maybe just something different from the same can, same coins, same silence.
And yet, when she looked down, her hand was still curled on the counter.Same as always.Same shape.Same waiting.
"Like always," she whispered to no one.
The shift ended without another customer.
She stood for a while after locking the doors, the keys cool in her palm. The streets outside glistened, wet and humming, a mosaic of neon and puddles. Her breath misted faintly on the glass door as she leaned against it, scanning the empty sidewalk.
She told herself she was just checking the weather.
But her eyes paused on the bus shelter across the road.
There was no one there.
Or maybe there had been, just a second before. A blur. A shadow with weight. She couldn't tell.
She stepped outside. The city air was soaked in electricity and wet concrete. Somewhere a tire splashed. Somewhere a window closed. All normal sounds. Too normal.
She wrapped her coat tighter, stepped forward, paused, turned back.
Inside the store, the lights hummed.
And there—on the counter, between the register and the plastic display of gum—sat a can of iced tea.
Unopened.
Not the one he had bought. This one was cold. Condensation clung to the sides.
Lina froze.
She hadn't heard the door.
No chime.
No beep from the motion sensor.
No footstep.
She approached slowly. The register light blinked red. No transaction logged. No drawer opened.
She looked around.
The aisles were empty.
Her heart pounded in the strange, slow way fear sometimes walks: not as a sprint, but as a procession.
Then she noticed the paper.
A square. Folded once. Neatly. Tucked beneath the can like it belonged there.
She hesitated before touching it.
The paper was dry.
Unfolded, the ink was sharp and small, written with a hand too careful to be rushed.
Do you always watch me back?
Lina stared at the words.
No name.
No signature.
Just the can.
Just the question.
She didn't answer.Not out loud.