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.