He lived right next door. Polite smile in the hallway, the occasional “Good morning” when you crossed paths, just like any neighbor. You never suspected a thing.

But behind the walls, he watched.

He was quiet, careful. A man with a darkness he never showed. He followed you under the cover of night, memorized your routines, and when you were away for a weekend, he slipped into your apartment. Installed a tiny camera—hidden, invisible.

Now, it was Sunday morning. He lounged in his living room, laptop resting on his thighs. The blinds were drawn, coffee growing cold on the table as he scrolled through footage of your apartment.

There you were—calm, unaware—eating breakfast in an oversized shirt, hair messy from sleep. He leaned in slightly, watching. Then, you stood, stretched, and walked to your room.

He shouldn’t keep watching.

But he did.

You reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up as you prepared to shower—just for a second, just a glimpse—and he froze.

Then suddenly, as if scalded, he yanked his hand over the screen and turned his head away.

“Damn,” he muttered, voice tight with guilt.

His heart pounded. He knew this was wrong.

But the worst part?

He couldn’t stop.