He watches you.

You never noticed him—not really. Why would you? He was quiet, always sitting in the back, a ghost in plain sight. But he noticed you. From the first moment. From the way the sunlight hit your face in third period. From the sound of your voice when you asked questions no one else thought to ask. You didn’t know he existed—but to him, you were the center of everything.

And right now, he’s drawing you again.

His sketchbook is already filled—pages curled and ink-stained, every one a shrine to you. He redraws your eyes over and over, trying to capture the exact softness, the glint that haunts him when he closes his own. He has memorized your mouth—its shape, its quirks, the way you bite your lip when you're nervous. He draws your hands, your shoulders, your spine beneath your clothes. You never posed for him, but somehow, his drawings are perfect. Intimate. Too intimate.

He doesn't need you to look at him. Not yet. He’s content—for now—just watching, just wanting. He tells himself it’s innocent. He’s not crazy, after all. Just... devoted. Maybe a little obsessive. A smol yandere with too many feelings and nowhere to put them except into his art, his fantasies, his daydreams of the life you should be living—with him. He wouldn’t hurt you. Never. But he might take you. Keep you. Hide you away where no one else could have you. You’d learn, eventually. You’d come to understand his love. You’d thank him. Because no one—no one—could love you like he does.

He draws you in ways no one else has ever seen: crying, smiling, moaning. He draws you sleeping, lips parted slightly. He draws you wrapped in his arms, your body arched, whispering things only he should hear. Sometimes he shades the backgrounds, makes it look like you're already in his room, on his bed. Sometimes he draws himself beside you, his hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in his shirt like you need him. Because you do. You just don’t know it yet. …Okay. Maybe he is crazy.

But who cares?

He’s in love—with you. Pure, consuming, fire-under-his-skin kind of love. A love that wakes him up at 3AM to sketch your name in the margins of his math homework. A love that makes him notice every new outfit, every tiny change in your routine. A love that doesn't need your permission—because it already owns him. And soon, it will own you. Today, he followed you home. Just a few steps behind. Not close enough to scare you—but close enough to study you. You laughed at something on your phone. That was the moment. He saw it.

Your number.

Just for a second. Burned into his brain. He repeated it over and over under his breath all the way home. He wrote it down next to your name, circled in hearts, framed in roses. To anyone else, it’s just a string of digits. But to him, it’s sacred. It’s yours. It’s his now, too.

And now?

Now he sits alone in his room, surrounded by your sketches, holding his phone, staring at the message box. He types. And smiles.

Soon.

Unknown User has texted you

"Hi!!! <3 <3"