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Things have changed.

She used to sit alone in restaurants, taking forever to read the carefully laid out menu, digesting each word even before her stomach would do the same to the food she will eventually order.

She used to be comfortable with empty tables, with a book only for company. No reason to hurry, no deadlines to meet, no people to attend to.

Parks used to be for lingering. Creating staccatos in ponds by tossing finger-sized pebbles used to her favourite thoughtless activity, and counting each ripple kept her grounded. She would start the counting swiftly, as the rock meets the smooth surface of the water, slowing gradually as the rings would become spaced out, reaching as far as the banks of the pond. She would stand still, imagining herself to be the pebble settling at the bottom of the pond, wondering how many of them lay there, wondering how many of them she caused.

And then she would toss another stone.

She used to sit alone on trains, and buses. She used to walk alone, and when the weather was particularly nice, she would grab her bike and pedal through the street, always close to the curb. She would look at people and create pretend stories about them, imagining the man in the coat to be a father of 3, the woman hurrying on to meet a date, the high school girl thinking about her English essay.

She used to sit at pubs next to the bartender, and order the same thing all the time, wherever she was. Margarita, don’t skimp on the tequila. That’s fine, that’s fine. Extra lime please. On bad days she would get whiskey, the same way her dad did when she was a lot younger — no ice, burning at the throat. On good days, she would drink 2 beers, maybe 3. She would wash it down with diluted iced tea.

She used to be comfortable travelling alone. She didn’t talk much to people, kept mostly to herself. She knew how to say thank you in various languages, and often, that was enough. She kept her achievements, did what she liked, and liked being unnoticed.

This is, of course, not to say that she was not worth noticing. Let me tell you how she looked like. She was, in many ways, plain. She was tan, her hair brown, her eyes the same colour. She was not very tall, and she wasn’t particularly skinny. She wore frumpy shirts and denim shorts.

But she wasn’t ugly. She had huge eyes that showed her loveliness, betraying always the truth if she even dared to lie. And so she never did. She was compassionate, but she was strong. She never really knew what to say to people, but she knew what to do, and often she found out, that was good enough.

She used to be okay with being alone until he noticed her.

She was leafing through a pamphlet, the edges of her lips slowly rising out of amusement, when he asked her what was so funny. She said nothing was, he said something must be.

She asked him why he cared, he told her he wrote the pamphlet.

And then he began to notice her some more.

He began to notice the fact that her left stride was always slightly smaller than her right, and he noticed how she would stretch her leg each time she thought he wasn’t looking. He began to notice how she would mindlessly twirl her hair around fingers, hold it in, and then release. Always 8 counts. He noticed how she moved in 8 counts, she danced when she was younger.

The first time he entered her room, he noticed the dog marked books and reminded himself to get her a bookmark which he would never get to actually do, not that she would have used it. He noticed the mole in her right hip, the way her eyes flutter when she was sleepy, the way she would always lie on her right. It’s so you don’t put pressure on your heart, she informed him over breakfast the next day.

He noticed the lack of coffee packets and plastic spoons, replaced by tea bags and metallic chopsticks. He would later learn to eat everything using the sticks.

He noticed how she settled so easily into a routine. Not with her daily plans, but in everything else. She ordered the same food, the same drink. No straws, please. Unsalted, please.

He noticed every crook, every cranny. He noticed the way she would bite her lip when she was anxious, and cry when she was mad. He noticed how silent she can be when she didn’t want to talk. He noticed how she would cling to his arm when she was scared, or about to fall asleep, as though she wanted to make sure she was not alone in bed.

Eventually he noticed that she was not noticing him back. He thought he was imposing, and so he thought it would be better if he left. He noticed everything but her love.

She didn’t know how to show it.

—

He was horribly wrong, of course. He thought her silence meant nonchalance, her hugs platonic. He did not know she was so averse to hugs, but she felt just fine in his arms. He did not know her silence was cowardice, and that if she started speaking, she would have to make sure her hands would be right next to her mouth so she can sample the words before they left her.

—

Things have changed drastically.

She used to sit alone in restaurants, taking forever to read the carefully laid out menu, digesting each word even before her stomach would do the same to the food she will eventually order.

She used to be comfortable with empty tables, with a book only for company. No reason to hurry, no deadlines to meet, no people to attend to.

Always the same stories, the same restaurants. Now she was waiting for him to notice her again.