It happened all the time. She turned and the sunlight moved with her, shifting and slicing until it captured every narrow perfection of her face. I'd grown used to it, in a way; I knew exactly when to remind my lungs to breathe in again, when to twist my lips into a dismissive smile, when to turn my eyes away without drawing any suspicion. It didn't matter - the image of her had been burned into my eyes like a brand, every blink and I saw her again. The ghostly outline of her features haunted my every sight, as if I'd been staring too long at the sun.
In a way, I had been.