EDITORIAL TITLE
There is a specific kind of looking that happens when you don’t mean to look. On a bus. Through a gap in a curtain. At someone across a courtyard who hasn’t noticed you yet. It is not surveillance. It is not desire, exactly. It sits somewhere between recognition and intrusion, and you know it when it happens because something in your chest tightens slightly, like a small apology forming before you’ve done anything wrong.
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