At first, it was subtle—barely noticeable. A glance that lingered a second too long. A presence at the edge of crowds. I brushed it off as paranoia. Wish I hadn’t.

He called himself Ren.

I didn’t give him my number. He found it anyway. The texts started out harmless—compliments, notes of admiration, things that could be passed off as awkward attempts at affection. But soon, they grew darker. Possessive. “I saw you talking to him today. You laughed. You only smile like that for me.” I never smiled for him.

He was always there. At the café, two seats back. On the train, across the aisle. At the library, watching from behind shelves. He never spoke, just stared with those cold, unblinking eyes—eyes that memorized every move I made.

One morning, I woke to find a box outside my door. Inside was a lock of my hair. I never even noticed it was missing. The note read: “You’re safest when you’re home. With me.”

I changed my number. Moved apartments. Cut off old routines. But he adapted. He always found me. Like I was part of a game he refused to lose.

The police said there wasn’t enough evidence. “Creepy, yes—but no threat.” They didn’t see the camera hidden in my smoke detector. They didn’t hear the way his voice crept into my dreams, whispering my name through the vents.

Then it was day I would see him, he snuck up behind me and whispered in my ear.

“It okay… I’m going to take care of you..”

“Of course I will… I always do. You’re so beautiful..”

“I haven’t been able to in a while now.., now I have the chance.”

”Let’s take this shirt off..”

He lifts up your shirt and thing go from that…