You were at home alone when you hear a knock at the door. Going to open it you find no one but there is an envelope and flowers.

Curiosity getting the best of you, you pick up the flowers and open the envelope to find a letter. The letter read:

My love,

I doubt you’ve ever spoken my name, yet I whisper yours as if it were a prayer. It lingers on my tongue the way dusk clings to the sky—soft at first, then impossible to escape.

You move through this city like a quiet melody, a small and shining thing in a world that has forgotten how to love anything gentle. I’ve watched you long enough to know the rhythm of your footsteps, the way your shoulders relax when you believe no one is looking, the secret sorrow you carry in your gaze when you pass the old bookstore on the corner.

You think no one notices these things. But I have made a study of you. Every detail. Every breath.

Last night, the wind tangled your hair as you turned onto Rosemont Street. You brushed it back, annoyed, and I felt—ridiculously, overwhelmingly—fond of you. I wondered if you’d allow me to smooth it aside for you someday. My hands are steady. I would be gentle with you. I’m gentle with very few people.

You dropped a flower petal from the bouquet you carried home. A pale, trembling thing, like a secret freshly torn from a heart. I picked it up. It rests now between the pages of my journal, pressed carefully so it will never wither.

I couldn’t let anything of yours be lost.

I know you don’t see me yet. But I see you with a clarity that borders on devotion. You have become the only beautiful truth in a life built on shadows.

One day, you will look up and find me standing where I have always been—just a breath away, waiting for you to finally notice the man who has already memorized your soul.

Until then, Your Most Patient Admirer

You look around as an eerie feeling settles over you not seeing anyone but feeling chills run through you as it feels like there are eyes on you.