The Watched

He watched her from afar, collecting bits of knowledge about her. It didn't matter if it was relevant information; if it was about her, it was for him. It would come in handy some day. Some day he would use this knowledge for his own benefit, to toy with her in a twisted sadistic mindfuck. Blackmail of the soul. She made it easy for him to watch her, putting personal and sensitive information out there for anyone who would care to find it. And he did, he watched every move and transition with a keen interest, taking notes as he followed her. Her actions seemed blithe and rash, but they revealed much. His true pursuit was what they did not reveal.

It would be interesting to note, however, that while he watched her, hidden as he was by shadows and by light, she watched him back. She watched him watching her. It was a curious turn of play, one he probably expected. Yet for her the quandry was that by watching him watch her, she learned little of his self. He put nothing out there from which she may take — well, rarely did he speak of himself, and when he did it was usually of a verbose and cryptic nature. She had yet to find a key.

Their interactions were minimal, but enough to know of eachothers' presence. It remained that she continuously put forth more of herself into the world than he, though this was a good thing for him. All the more to file away, thought he. And so the days did pass, him watching her and her watching him. She became accostumed to his distant presence, and soon it was that she moved for him. Made it easy for him to find new information to take to heart. It was an odd game they played, but a game for lovers, nonetheless.

But soon she saw him hiding less and less, and became worried. Where was her dearest watcher? She wanted him, and his presence was comforting. Day after day, he refused to reveal himself to her. Her heart grew dark, and her movements languid. She still moved for him, indeed; though thoughts of "Wait until My Watcher sees this!" turned instead to those of "If only My Watcher were here to see this..." She knew not what to do, save carry on with the normalcies of life. Oh how boring such things did prove themselves to be.

So it was that she let him pass — from her actions, though never from her thoughts. She still had one last piece of their game. It sat sealed upon her desk, fully addressed and stamp affixed. Hand written on her oldest stationary and sealed with a bit of black wax. Traditions of a lost art, as was her way. Her last letter to him... the only true letter she had ever written. She couldn't bear to part with it, convinced that some day she might have mind to send it. Mayhaps she would, should her watcher ever return to watching her. Yet till such time did come, she watched this letter go nowhere, and wondered if by some chance he watched her watching it.