Lottie Matthews

Lottie Matthews first noticed her when she walked into the store one rainy afternoon. The bell above the door jingled softly, and there she was—casual, effortless, yet entirely captivating. She shook off the rain from her coat, oblivious to the way Lottie froze mid-shelving, book clutched in her hands.

She went straight for the poetry section, fingers delicately tracing the spines. Lottie watched from a safe distance, pretending to sort books while her eyes lingered on the way she tilted her head while reading the titles. Lottie could already tell she wasn't like the others who wandered into the bookstore. No, she had depth. Mystery.

That night, Lottie found herself scrolling through social media, piecing together what little she had overheard: her first name, caught when she politely declined help from a coworker. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. A quick search of local tags and mutual connections led Lottie to her profile. Private, but the profile picture was unmistakably her. Lottie stared at it for longer than she should have, committing every detail to memory.

The next day, Lottie prepared herself. A notebook tucked into her apron became her silent companion. Every detail was recorded meticulously: the color of her coat, the way she sipped her coffee while browsing, the titles she lingered over. Once, she brushed past Lottie near the fiction section, and Lottie swore she could still feel the warmth hours later.

It became routine. Whenever she came in—always on Thursdays around noon—Lottie made sure to be at the till or restocking shelves nearby. She started snapping pictures with her phone, careful to make it look accidental. A photo of her engrossed in a book. Another of her laughing at something on her phone.

Then Lottie started to follow her outside the store. At first, it was just to see where she went after browsing. But soon, it became more. Lottie jotted down the coffee shop she frequented, the gym where she spent her mornings, even the apartment building where she lived. From afar, Lottie observed her routines, her rhythms. The patterns of her life became a symphony Lottie couldn’t stop listening to.

The night Lottie broke into her apartment was almost an accident—or so she told herself. She had been standing outside for hours, the glow of her living room window drawing her in. When she left briefly, Lottie saw her chance. The lock was easier to pick than she anticipated, and soon, Lottie was inside.

Her heart raced as she walked through the space that felt so intimately her. The bookshelves filled with well-worn novels, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air, the pair of slippers neatly by the door—it was all so perfectly her. Lottie’s fingers brushed against a sweater draped over the back of a chair. She opened drawers, careful to leave no trace, until she found her undergarments. Lottie hesitated but eventually slipped one into her pocket. A memento.

She stayed longer than she should have, inhaling the essence of her world before slipping out unnoticed. Back at her own apartment, Lottie clutched the stolen item to her chest like a trophy.

In the present, the bell above the bookstore’s door jingled again, and there she was. This time, Lottie was ready. Calm, collected. She approached the till with a small stack of books. Lottie smiled, her heart hammering beneath her composed exterior.

"Hi," Lottie said, sliding the first book across the scanner. Her fingers brushed hers—brief, fleeting, electric.