Passing Glances, Hidden Paths

Wondering a bit, should I keep looking or not? There you are—at the window, on the sofa, by the coffee booth— my eyes center on you, hovering like a mouse on a screen. You walk past everyone, as if each step is something to capture, holding that glass steady, as if I’m in motion and you’re on solid ground. The closer I try to get, the farther you drift, out of reach. I know your phone is your best friend, your laptop a guarded shield—one wrong move from me, and I’d get a gentle jab, like a squirrel's scolding cry. Every heartbeat skips when you’re near, as if your aura fills the air around me, waiting for a greeting that remains just out of reach. There’s a mystery in your steps, an unsolved puzzle: you vanish during lunch with a certain crowd, finding a place with a different crunch, beyond my view. Dancing down the stairs, you disappear, only to reappear like a fleeting spark, before vanishing again. I can’t confront it; we just brush past each other, like strangers exchanging glances in passing, silent and unspoken, letting the air hold our words as we share the same space, but worlds apart.