My Car Girl (My Love Lines) - Chapter 3: The Ones Who See

For weeks, she returned like clockwork—same spot, same shimmer, same mysterious stillness. That red car, always parked just beyond the curve in the lane. Familiar. Alluring.

Until one day, someone else noticed.

As we approached the office gates, my colleague Liam nudged Noah.

“That’s a classic, isn’t it?” he whispered, nodding toward her car.

I stopped in my tracks.

“You see it?” I asked, careful not to sound too eager.

Liam squinted. “Yeah, red coupe. Definitely vintage. Looks… untouched. But strange—no one’s ever seen anyone inside.”

That was the first time someone else acknowledged it. Even though he sees different model and differed colour still its a red car.

Curious, I started asking a few others. But not everyone could see what I saw.

Ava, bright and sharp-eyed, laughed when I mentioned it.

“That spot’s always empty,” she said. “I park near it every day. Maybe you’re dreaming.”

But Elina, the quiet one from our team, had a different reaction.

“I thought I saw something inside once,” she murmured. “A red cloth. Draped across the passenger seat. It looked… ceremonial. Almost like it didn’t belong to this time.”

I asked, “are you talking about red car?”

Elina, “Yes, blood red colour, with so many scratches on sides”

And then Jonas, who I walked with some mornings, shared something stranger.

“I didn’t see the car,” he said. “But I saw a red cloth floating above that space. In the air. Like silk in water. It hovered… just for a second. Then it disappeared.”

He paused. “I was the only one who reacted. Everyone else just kept walking.”

That evening, in the quiet of our apartment, I brought it up with my roommate Emil.

“You think ghosts are real?” I asked.

He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged.

“Not like the stories. But I believe in… traces. Residue. People don’t always leave cleanly.”

“Are they always bad?”

“Not all. Some are lost. Some just want to be seen.”

We fell into silence. I pulled out the sticky note I’d kept since the first week.

KA 09–1978

“That’s the number on her car,” I said.

We tried looking it up—old vehicle records, forums, even archived accident reports.

Nothing. No mention of the number. No match.

It was like it had never existed.

And still, I could picture it clearly. The shine, the curve, the stillness.

It didn’t scare me.

It fascinated me.

That car wasn’t chasing me.

It was pulling me in.

A few days later, Jonas visited our place. We were just hanging out when he spotted the sticky note on my wall.

He stepped closer. “That number…”

I looked over.

“You’ve seen it?”

His brows furrowed. “It’s almost the same as what I saw the day that cloth thing happened. I remember the digits. But the prefix… felt different somehow.”

He couldn’t explain it. Neither could I.

Emil muttered, “What if it’s not the same car in every version? What if it’s one… trying to become many?”

We all fell quiet.

That night, I had a dream.

I was standing by my apartment window. The street below was wrapped in a silver fog. And in the middle of that mist, parked under the flickering lamp, was her red car. Unmoving. Perfect.

She was sitting on the bonnet again—legs crossed, dress gently rippling in the breeze.

Her head turned. Slowly.

She looked right at me, though I was five floors up.

And smiled.

I didn’t wake up afraid. I woke up wishing I could fall back in.

Since then, I haven’t seen her outside the street.

Not once.

It’s been two months now.

The red car is gone.

No shimmer on the pavement.

No figure on the bonnet.

No floating red cloth.

Some days I wonder if I imagined it all.

Other days, I walk that street with a quiet hope—half expecting her to be there, just around the bend.

But the space remains empty.

Silent.

Like it’s holding its breath.

As if she’s waiting.

Or watching.

Or choosing… when to return.

My Car Girl (My Love Lines) - Chapter - 2 (Encounter - Her Name) KrishnAksha

 I finally did it. I walked up to her, heart pounding, palms sweaty. She was leaning on the bonnet of her car, eyes fixed on mine like she was waiting for me. Her smile was there, soft and lingering, but her eyes…they seemed deeper this time. Like she was inviting me closer.

“What’s your name?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Her smile faded just a bit, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate. Her lips parted, and she mouthed something, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted to the car, almost instinctively.

I stepped closer, just a foot away from her now. “Your name,” I repeated, louder, more confident. Her lips trembled. She tried again—this time, I heard a whisper, something soft and broken, like it was struggling to escape.

But I couldn’t understand it. It was like listening through water—muffled and distant. Her eyes grew wider, almost desperate. She raised her hand, pointing to the car. The license plate gleamed under the morning sun. KA-03.09.78.

“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head.

Her hand dropped, and she took a step back, her eyes locked on mine, now filled with something I couldn’t explain—fear? Regret? Sorrow? Before I could speak again, she turned away and got into the car. The engine roared to life, louder than usual, and for a moment, I swore I heard her voice whispering my name from within.

The car pulled away slowly, fading into the morning mist. I stood there, frozen, until the sound disappeared entirely.

When I asked around, nobody knew about a red car parked there. I even checked with the local shops. An old mechanic told me there was a car like that—a long time ago. He chuckled, almost nervously. “Some folks say she’s still around. Looking for someone. But that’s just old talk, right?” He laughed, but his eyes betrayed something…fear, perhaps.

I didn’t believe him. Until the next week. I saw her again—same red dress, same red car, waiting in the same spot. Her eyes locked on mine the moment she saw me. She smiled. I didn’t ask her name this time.

I just waved.

And she waved back

My Car Girl (My Love Lines) - Chapter - 1 (Re-write)

 I’ve met many girls before her, but she is different—hauntingly different.

Things I love about her:

1. She always wears a red dress—simple, elegant, yet striking. It flutters softly in the breeze, as if it’s part of her soul.
2. Her red car—sleek, polished, always glimmering under the sunlight, almost like it breathes with her.
3. That cute smile she always carries, as if she knows a secret I’m too afraid to discover.
4. The way she looks at me—direct, unyielding, searching my eyes like she’s trying to read the lines of my heart.
5. Twice a week, she follows me to my office, her car trailing just behind mine, keeping a perfect distance.
6. The way she overtakes me on the road, smooth and effortless, like she’s dancing on air.
7. The way her presence lingers—a whisper of her fragrance that clings to the air, like a memory refusing to fade.
8. The faint scent of jasmine that follows her; it’s delicate, almost ethereal.

I’ve never dared to look directly into her eyes—but she always stares into mine, unblinking and calm. I can’t explain it, but there’s a fear—a hesitation that holds me back. I’ve seen her countless times, always in the same spot, like she belongs there…like she’s waiting for me. I must have passed her 30 or 40 times, but only three or four times did I meet her gaze. And each time, her eyes locked with mine—piercing, gentle, as if she was unraveling my thoughts, whispering silently, “What are you staring at?”

She adores her car—I can tell. She never lets a street dog even brush against its polished surface. Oddly enough, I’ve never seen her drive it. I don’t even know if she knows the driver. But she always sits on the bonnet, comfortably perched, legs crossed, eyes distant—as if she’s waiting for something. In the beginning, when she caught me watching her, she would get out of the car and just…stare at me. But when she realized I was always watching, she stopped.

One day, she did something unexpected. She stood right in my path. I was certain she’d talk to me—her eyes were bright with intention, her lips slightly parted as if ready to speak. But she didn’t. She just smiled, soft and mysterious, and walked away. My heart pounded with that familiar fear—the fear that I still don’t understand.

There’s a reason for it.

I’ve seen her with a man before. He always wears white—a white shirt and white pants. He’s tall, lean, maybe in his thirties. I saw him driving her car once. She never smiles when he’s around. Not even a trace. He drives slowly, deliberately, like he’s leading her somewhere she doesn’t want to go.

The strangest part? My colleagues who walk the same path with me…they’ve never seen her. Not once. I even asked once, half-jokingly, “Did you see that girl by the red car?” They just looked at me, confused. “What girl?” they asked. I never brought it up again.