David wasn't the kind of person who stood out. Quiet, diligent, and unassuming, he excelled in his biochemistry course but remained largely invisible to his peers. He didn't mind. University life was transient, a stage of data points and deadlines, with little room for personal entanglements.
That changed in his second semester when he first noticed her.
Her name was Clara—a fellow student seated two rows ahead during their laboratory sessions. She had an air of quiet competence, her movements precise as she measured reagents or adjusted microscope slides. David watched her, first with idle curiosity, then with something deeper. He couldn't explain it, but his eyes always gravitated to her during class.
It wasn't long before he understood why: her hands.
Clara's hands were exquisite. Pale and slender, with long, tapering fingers that moved with effortless grace. They were immaculate, save for the occasional smudge of ink or a faint chemical stain from the lab. When she gestured, they cut through the air like the strokes of a conductor. David found himself mesmerized by the way she gripped a pen, the rhythm of her fingers as they drummed absentmindedly on the desk.
At first, it was subtle. He told himself it was harmless—aesthetic appreciation, nothing more. But over time, his thoughts became singular, obsessive. He began to track her schedule, ensuring he sat close enough to observe her in class. In the cafeteria, he lingered at a distance, watching her hands as she ate, her fingers curling around utensils with an elegance that seemed almost unreal.
He started sketching them in his notebook. It began as an idle distraction but quickly devolved into an archive of meticulous renderings: hands clasped, hands in motion, hands at rest. Clara's hands. His classmates joked about his obsessive note-taking, never realizing he wasn't documenting lectures but preserving her essence.
It became unbearable when he saw her outside the classroom. She was walking with another student—a boy—and laughing. Her hands moved expressively as she spoke, brushing against the boy's arm. David felt an inexplicable pang of something raw and unnameable. That night, he couldn't sleep.
It was during the end-of-term group project that they finally spoke. Paired together by the professor, David found himself seated across from Clara in the library. She smiled at him, warm and polite, and he felt his chest tighten.
They worked well together. Clara was intelligent, efficient, and encouraging. David found himself speaking more than usual, if only to keep her attention. He avoided her gaze, focusing instead on her hands as they flipped through textbooks or typed on her laptop.
When the project concluded, Clara suggested they celebrate over coffee. He agreed, his heart pounding.
Over the next few weeks, they met sporadically, sharing quiet conversations about their studies and mutual frustrations. Clara seemed to enjoy his company, though she remained oblivious to the fixation brewing beneath his calm exterior.
David knew it couldn't last.
One evening, while reviewing notes in his dimly lit dorm room, he made a decision. It wasn't a rash act, nor one born of emotion. It was clinical, methodical. Clara's hands were perfection, and perfection deserved preservation.
He planned meticulously, down to the smallest detail. A late-night study session at her flat provided the perfect opportunity. She offered him tea, her hands cradling the mug as they chatted. When she turned to retrieve a book from her shelf, he struck.
The chloroform worked quickly. Clara crumpled to the floor, her body limp. David's hands trembled as he worked, but his movements were precise. He had studied enough anatomy to know exactly where to cut, how to sever without damaging.
When it was done, he sat back, cradling the severed hands in his own. They felt lighter than he expected, their pale skin still warm. He placed them gently in a glass case he had prepared, lining it with velvet to cushion their delicate form.
David never returned to university. Clara's disappearance made headlines, sparking an investigation that ultimately led nowhere.
In the privacy of his apartment, David gazed at the hands each evening, marveling at their beauty. They were his now, forever preserved in stillness.
And for the first time, he felt truly complete.