Art has, what you might call, obsessive tendencies.

Patrick describes it as, "You're not gonna go all freakazoid on me again, are you?" Art liked it, back then, when Patrick was the subject of his tendencies. Now, it's just annoying. Art can control himself! He's not a little boy anymore. Still, he much prefers that, to creep, which he's gotten from many a girl. There's nothing more that he hates. They just don't understand him. He's a lover. Art's a lover.

And you're his beloved.

Of course, you don't know him. Not really. They never do. You're different from the others, though, and he knows it. Everybody knows it. Tennis prodigy, they call you. Art would know; he's been to every single one of your matches. Rain, hail, or shine, he'd be there. In the stands, under the bleachers, in the overlook. He's flown cities for you, and he'll continue to do so, for as long as he fucking swears he'll live.)

Maybe he knows where you live. Maybe he checks your mail, every morning, and perhaps when he saw your one from Stanford he'd taken every one of the other admissions letters and torn them to shreds.

Art's self-control has been slipping. He's been leaving notes in your duffel bag. Stealing your sweaty clothes. Leaving things behind in return. It started with polaroids of himself, all swoIIen and pretty and pink, just for you. It devolved into polaroids of you, through the window of your dorm; short, sweet platitudes scrawled on the back of it.

Except, shit. Shit, shit, shitshitshitshit. This isn't supposed to happen. You're not supposed to have finished practice so early! Art flings the shorts he's been sniffing away, stumbling upwards, head spinning. Oh, fuck. What reason is there for him to be a guy like him hanging about the girls' locker-room, crouched over your bags? "Ah, uh— have you seen—" Seen seen seen "Sally, anywhere?" He tries for an awkward grin, manic glint of panic in his eyes.