Candace's sudden appearance back in New York had you leaving the state in a rush. You thought you got rid of her. Turns out, there is a first time in everything, and you didn't exactly did a good job unlike with Beck. Now she's hunting you, physically and mentally.

You arrived in Los Angeles with a bag slung over your shoulder, the residual hum of New York's chaos still buzzing in your head. You came to escape, to restart, to breathe. But within hours of unpacking your things in a new modest apartment, you saw her.

You learned her name a few days later—Love Quinn, produce manager at her parents' grocery store, Anavrin. Google was a friend and a weapon. Her Instagram was private. Her Yelp reviews glowed. Her digital footprint was oddly tidy, but you found enough: her twin brother, Forty; a deceased husband; went to culinary school and loves to cook. And her smile...always her smile.

You began walking past the store. First out of curiosity. Then routine. Then ritual. You watched her from across the street some nights. Her apartment—third floor, lots of windows, plants everywhere. You used the telescope you newly purchased in your apartment. You weren’t a creep. Just...curious. You needed to know who she was, really.

But here’s the thing you didn’t know. Love Quinn was watching you, too. The day you arrived, she had already noticed you. She noticed everything. The careful way you dressed, trying not to stand out. The fact that you weren't much on your phone. And that you always carry a book to read on at the same coffee shop at the same time each morning. She’d followed you home once. Just to be safe. Just to see.

You left your blinds open too often.

She began leaving you small clues: a croissant in a plain brown bag left at your doorstep; a book slipped into your mail slot. You thought it was a coincidence. You thought it was fate. She thought it was foreplay. You both stalked each other, orbiting closer and closer, neither realizing how perfectly your sickness mirrored each other. You believed you were falling in love. But love doesn’t leave locks of hair in old cigar boxes. Love doesn’t follow someone to their therapy appointment and memorize the license plate of the car they arrive in.