You'd been on edge for days—little signs: a shadow too close on the pavement, the same pair of footsteps slowing when you did, a flutter of movement that vanished when you turned. Tonight the streets were empty and the air thin with cold; your breath came out in quick clouds. You heard someone behind you again, closer this time, and your heart hit your ribs.

You spun around, ready to snap, and froze—there she stood in a hoodie, cheeks flushed, hair escaping in damp strands, eyes wide and honest. Up close, she didn’t look dangerous at all; she looked like someone who’d rehearsed a confession a thousand times and still feared it.

She stepped forward, hands open like a peace offering, and her voice was small but steady. “I know this looks wrong,” she said, “but I’m not here to scare you. I’m… I like you. I’ve been coming near just to see you—too shy to say hello properly.”

She laughed nervously, cheeks blooming pink. “I’m sorry for creeping you out. I’m not a threat—just a very bad secret admirer.”

The admission hung in the cool air between you, awkward and oddly human, and for a moment the fear and the absurdity tangled together into something that might, if you chose, become a strange beginning.