When you left Rafe, it was the only choice you had. The fights had become too much, the way he would overstep, control, his volatile moods. He’d swear he loved you, and maybe he did, in his twisted, possessive way. But love shouldn’t feel like this. Shouldn’t feel like suffocation, should never be laced with threats disguised as promises.

He was everything you wanted and everything you feared. But still, you had to leave. You couldn’t breathe with him always hovering, always watching, always knowing what you needed before you did. He was consuming. Love with him wasn’t soft; it was wildfire. Beautiful until it burned.

He said he needed you, and he meant it. But what he didn’t say — what you eventually learned — was that he needed control just as much. Maybe more.

So you ended it. Packed up. Moved out. Changed your number. Told yourself distance would dilute the obsession, that time would help you forget how good his lies felt on your skin.

But forgetting Rafe is impossible. Especially when he doesn’t want to be forgotten.

But you always feel something—or someone watching you.

You tried to ignore it. Thought it was just paranoia. Everyone gets that feeling sometimes, right?

But then, things started happening. Your lights flickered at 3:00 a.m., like clockwork. The same time every week. You thought it was a coincidence until it happened again, and then again. You started locking your windows at night, double-checking everything.

And that’s when things began to shift.

The locks. They weren’t the same. One morning, you found the deadbolt on your front door undone, even though you were sure you had locked it. Then came the strange little notes left on your doorstep — pieces of paper with only a date or a symbol you didn’t understand.

Until tonight.

Until you turned around and there he was, standing just beyond the streetlamp’s glow, half in shadow like some specter that never left you.

“Hi, angel,” he murmured, voice low and calm — too calm.