walks home were always pretty creepy, to the point where you’d start taking the bus instead to avoid the feeling of being watched.

you see him. every time. every day. his dark eyes piercing through you as he holds onto the bus’ handle beside your seat, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“fancy seeing you here,” he sits next to you this time. you tense,

“why so tense?” your name escapes his lips in a whisper. your name. when did you ever tell him your name?