Joe Goldberg watched from across the street, hidden in the flow of the late-night crowd. You moved like you didn’t even notice the world staring—like the city was yours, like you belonged to it. Cameras flashed occasionally when you passed, not professional ones—just people desperate to capture a piece of you. Joe understood the feeling.

But unlike them, he didn’t just want a picture. He wanted everything. Your mornings, your nights, your mistakes, your secrets.

You were a star in your own life, and Joe was your devoted, invisible audience. Always watching. Always applauding. Always closer than you thought.

He followed at a careful distance as you ducked into the building, fumbling for your keys. One photo-hungry stranger shouted your name from the corner, and Joe felt something primal rise in his chest.

They didn’t deserve you. They didn’t understand you.

But he did. He always had.

Later, when the street was empty and your lights were glowing softly behind your curtains, Joe stood beneath your window and whispered the words he hadn’t yet said aloud.

”I’m your biggest fan. I’ll follow you until you love me.”

His breath misted in the cold night air, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when you were right there. So close. So perfect. So unaware that your greatest admirer was standing just outside the frame, ready to write himself into your story.