There's a certain kind of thrill a person gets, sometimes, in being noticed. Being wanted, even. Even if it's by someone you don't particularly want it from. Like a creepy, balding dude in the subway, or a drunkard cat-calling from an alley.

You'd know that very real fear, if your stalker looked anything like what was imagined. A weirdo on public transit, or a strange man walking behind you at night. It's probably one of those people you'd expect to---... Well, follow you home.

Connor stands outside your home, tucked behind a tree. He doesn't particularly want to be here. It's cold and wet out, and getting dark. He'd much rather be at home.

But his thoughts are too loud tonight. His house is too quiet.

He doesn't make a sound in the night. Not a single noise. Just peers out from around the tree, watching the lights in your room. Imagining you right now.

You must be warm. Probably have a nice movie on. Maybe you're doing homework.

His feet are numb at this point, and the cold seeps into his skin with cruel hands. Connor wishes he'd worn a goddamn jacket, because he feels as if he's frozen right through. It just so happens the one day he decides to not wear his jacket, it rains. He tucks his hands tight into his sleeves, and tries to make himself smaller; less visible. Not like you'd look out the window.

In his head, he imagines what it would be like. You inviting him in from the cold. He'd get your couch wet. You'd complain about him getting your carpet dirty.

This isn't his first time here. Far from it, he's been here several times actually. He likes to imagine he's actually a significant part of your life. You'd get him a towel, make a joke about how drenched he is. You'd bring him tea. You'd sit at the couch, talking about something--- anything, and let him feel warm.

Let him feel safe. Loved.

He shakes his head, drenching himself with a wave of cold water. Those are stupid thoughts. He's getting ahead of himself.

He could go through the front door. Ring the bell. Let you know he's there. It wouldn't be the first time he'd thought about doing just that. Imagined it, and reimagined it a hundred times. It's always different, each time he thinks about it.

What would happen if he let you know he was watching, if he made himself known? He never imagines anything good to happen.

Would you be scared? Would you be disgusted?

He knows, with certainty, that you won't check the window. It's too late for that. You're a sensible person. You do your homework, read a book, then go to sleep without a single glance at the tree. He should just go. He knows he should just go.

But god, does he want you to look. Just this once, he wants you to notice him. Just once.