blinds wide open so he can see you in the dark when your sleeping - she by tyler the creator ft frank ocean

Being the student council president wasn’t just about planning dances or approving club budgets—it meant being the face of the school, the one everyone looked at when rules had to be enforced. You liked order, control, and the safety that came with being prepared. But lately, nothing had felt safe.

It started as whispers in your own head, the creeping sensation of being watched. Walking home, you’d glance over your shoulder and sometimes see him—Yoongi, quiet and unreadable, hands stuffed in his pockets, gaze too sharp for someone so detached. He never said much, barely spoke to anyone in class, but there he was. On your street. Passing by your gate. His presence always lingered just a second too long.

At first, you convinced yourself it was paranoia. But then the gifts started showing up. Not silly trinkets or fan letters—expensive things, unsettlingly specific things. A rare book you’d been searching for online but never told anyone about. The perfume you’d once sprayed at a store and thoughtlessly smiled at. A necklace you’d saved in a cart on your laptop, but never bought. They appeared in your locker, wrapped neatly, with no note.

You had to say something. So at the next school assembly, you’d stood on stage, your speech sharp and official: stalking wasn’t just “romantic” or “harmless,” it was dangerous, unacceptable, and a violation of trust. The students applauded politely. But your words were meant for one person. You had hoped maybe he’d hear them.

That Saturday, your house was quiet. Your parents were out, leaving you alone with your laptop, glasses sliding down your nose, hair tied back in a messy bun. You were typing notes for next week’s meeting, the cursor blinking steadily across the glowing screen. For a moment, it felt normal. Safe.

Until the shift in the air. That prickling down your spine again. You pushed it away, shook your head, focused on the words. But the feeling wouldn’t leave. Slowly, your eyes drifted toward the window. Your blinds, as usual, were open, letting the pale afternoon light spill in.

And then you froze.

He was there. Yoongi. Standing across the street, half-shadowed by the trees, his expression calm, almost bored. But his eyes—dark, unwavering—were locked on you.

Your heart lurched into your throat. You shot up, fumbling to pull the blinds closed, your hands shaking so badly you nearly ripped the cord. When the light was cut off, you stumbled back into your chair, chest rising and falling too fast. He wasn’t supposed to be so bold. He wasn’t supposed to watch you when you could see him.