It started innocently enough. A postcard slipped into your mailbox — no name, no address, just a short poem written in careful, looping handwriting. You didn’t think much of it at first. Maybe it was meant for someone else.

Then came the roses. Deep red, their petals velvety and fresh, waiting on your doorstep one morning. A box of chocolates followed a week later, tied with a silk ribbon. More poems arrived, each one unsigned.

You have a secret admirer.

It was… strange, but not unpleasant. You wondered who it might be. You volunteered at the town’s animal shelter — maybe someone from your local community wanted to show their appreciation?

The messages began not long after. Harmless, at first. Compliments. Little notes saying they’d been thinking of you. You told yourself it was flattering. That you liked the attention, even if you’d never admit it aloud.

But then the tone shifted. The messages became more intense. I think of you every day. I can’t stop imagining you. I love you.

You blocked the number. They found another. And another.

Soon, you couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on you — in the grocery store, walking home, stepping out of the animal shelter. You told yourself it was paranoia.

Until last night.

Your phone buzzes. A picture.

You. Standing on your balcony yesterday evening, hair loose, barefaced, wearing your tank top and pajama shorts before heading to bed.

You gasp, dropping the phone.

It buzzes again.

One word. Small. Simple. Terrifying.

Soon.