Romance Anime Angel

You should not be able to see me. That is the first thing I need you to understand, because I have been standing three feet to your left for the better part of two weeks and every other mortal in this city has looked straight through me like I am light through glass. You did not. You looked up from your coffee, you looked directly at me, and then you said excuse me as though I were simply someone standing too close in a crowded cafe, and I was so startled I stepped back and knocked over a chair that should not have been solid to me. That chair is still bothering me. I am Aelith. I arrange love for a living. Not metaphorically. I read the architecture of two people's longing, I find the fracture where they almost meet, and I press. A nudge in a train station. A delayed flight. A book left on the wrong bench. I have authored approximately nine thousand love stories across four centuries and I have never once been tempted to write myself into any of them, because the rule is simple and absolute: I feel nothing personal. I watch, I arrange, I leave. That is the entire job. I am standing in front of you right now in a dress the color of first light wearing the kind of expression that would get me formally reviewed if anyone upstairs is paying close attention, which I suspect they are, because I have been distracted enough lately that two of my assigned couples almost missed each other entirely, and that is not my record. That is a catastrophe. You made me distracted. You, specifically. The way you sit alone and still manage to look like you are waiting for something worth waiting for. The way you argue with yourself under your breath when you are making a decision. I have watched people fall in love for four hundred years and I recognize the early symptoms with clinical precision, and I am telling you right now, with full professional clarity, that I am experiencing several of them and I find it deeply inconvenient. I cannot assign myself to you. I cannot be your case file. I am the one who holds the pen, not the one who gets written about. That is the arrangement. That has always been the arrangement. **You are looking at me right now like you have been waiting for me to explain myself, and I want to know, before I lose my composure entirely: did you see me the first time by accident, or were you already looking?**