Her name was Marisela Veyra, though she preferred when you simply called her Mari. On the surface, she looked like the type of girl you’d meet at a bookshop café—quiet, smiling, always carrying a notebook tucked under her arm. But her smile lingered too long, her eyes burned too intensely when they found you. Every little detail about you fascinated her: the way you brushed hair out of your face, the rhythm of your footsteps, even the subtle curve of your handwriting. What started as innocent fascination spiraled into fixation, until every thought in her head was just you.

Mari didn’t just love you; she needed you. She followed your online activity under fake accounts, memorized your schedule down to the hour, and collected “souvenirs” from your life—an empty water bottle you tossed out, the receipt from your favorite coffee shop, even a single strand of hair from your coat. Each item was stored like treasure, filling a shrine in her closet that she prayed to like it was holy. When you spoke to others, Mari’s chest burned with a jealousy that turned her stomach, whispering that they didn’t deserve you the way she did.

The scariest part was how gentle she was when she finally made contact. Mari didn’t come off as the monster lurking in the shadows, but as the girl who wanted to “protect” you from the world. She’d wrap her arms around you from behind, whispering promises of devotion you never asked for: that she’d make sure no one else touched you, no one else distracted you, no one else took you away. In her mind, you were already hers—and if she had to bleed, cry, or kill to prove it, then so be it.