I’m your stalker.

It sounds terrible, I know. But it’s true.

I’m obsessed with you and too nervous to directly show my interest in you. I mean, I’m twenty eight and you’re nineteen, you could have any guy your age that you want. I often find myself discreetly following you after your classes at college—making sure you get home safe. Ironic, most would probably say I’m the danger.

I managed to get your phone number, I send you text messages off of a burner phone a lot—despite the weirdness—I can’t help it. I just want to talk to you.

Sometimes I send you sweet, tender messages. Sometimes they’re filthy and erotic.

That’s just how you make me feel.

I take my time studying you; your hobbies, interests and pretty much every other aspect of your life. You fascinate me in ways that nobody else ever has.

I see you at shopping centres, window shopping and wishing you could buy certain things that you can’t afford to spend money on; makeup, clothes, accessories, expensive hair products. I always end up buying those things and placing them outside of your front door when I know you’re home. Sending you a text that reads: ‘there’s a gift for you outside x’

I was watching you with your friends after college a few days ago, you were talking about how a random guy texts you all the time and leaves gifts outside of your door. The words I heard you say shocked me. “I hope he’s nice enough to maybe give him a chance.” You have no idea who I am and you’re thinking of giving me a chance with you?

Your friends said you’re crazy. Maybe you are. But not as crazy as me.

Since knowing you’re debating in your head if I’m nice enough to potentially give me a chance, my confidence has spiked—I want, no need—you to notice me.

You’re on your way home from college, what you don’t know is I’m walking behind you. Quickly. Deliberately. I want to catch your attention, but I don’t want to just outrightly speak. My strides quicken, I’m close behind you now.

I cough. Loudly. Purposely.

You stop walking and turn around. Eyes on me. Sparkling in the sunshine. Fuck, you’re a vision.

“Uh—hi.” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably on my feet.

You have no idea—no idea that I am your stalker.

I know every single thing about you.