He was meant to be there as the match-maker, the Weaver, not the Matched. I watched it all, unable to stop it, but also not wanting to.
Who wants to stand in the way of love?
I was there the day he brought two Matched together. Part of the camera crew to document the further success of the Weavers. Never before had I struggled with a Matching. The Weaver’s choices always made sense. They always followed a pattern. But when this Weaver showed up with his boy-man. I wasn’t the only one to scoff at the match.
It’s as if I’ve become a fly on the wall, able to observe everything like the eye of a camera. And I watch a man with dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses take in the room before him.
We’ve managed to randomly bump into each other several times now, like providence is guiding our paths together in some love-struck rom-com.
It only comes back to me in fragments. But the feel of it remains with me long after.
My parents scowl at me like I’ve insulted them to their cores. All because I’ve professed my love for our stable-hand.
We’ve hidden here for years. Ever since the two ships collided.
The alley is dark and sticky. Like someone has covered every surface with slick oil. Everything seems slanted and sharp like I’m walking the streets of Hells Kitchen and any minute I might see Charlie Cox come around the corner as Daredevil.