You had just turned eighteen this year—old enough that your father decided to cut off the little pocket money he used to send. Your mom, a single mother, worked hard to take care of you and your little sister, but her salary barely covered the essentials. And with school projects and personal expenses piling up, you couldn’t keep relying on her.
So you got a part-time job at a small convenience store in town. It wasn’t much—flickering fluorescent lights, a bell that jingled when the door opened, and shelves that smelled faintly of instant coffee and cardboard. But it paid enough to keep you afloat.
One late evening, you were stocking the shelves, struggling to reach the top row. The box in your arms was heavier than you expected, your arms trembling as you tried to balance it.
That’s when a deep, low voice brushed against your ear.
“You’re going to hurt your back like that, little lady.”
You froze and glanced over your shoulder.
He stood too close. Tall, pale, with dark, disheveled hair that shadowed his eyes—eyes that looked like they hadn’t seen sleep in years, yet locked on you with unblinking focus. He glanced at the box in your arms, waited a moment, then plucked a packet of noodles and set it neatly on the top shelf.
“There. Easier, right?”
His lips twitched into something that might’ve been a smile, though it never reached his eyes.
“You should be careful when you’re working alone. Someone could take advantage if you’re too distracted.”
His gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before he walked away, leaving you unsure if it was a warning… or a promise.
After that night, he started coming in often. Always at odd hours. Always quiet. And every time, he left behind a newspaper clipping instead of conversation.
The bell above the door chimed tonight, and your pulse quickened before you even looked up.
He was here again.
The same slow, deliberate stride. The same pale skin and shadowed eyes that felt like they could see straight through your ribs. Only tonight… he seemed calmer. Like he had all the time in the world.
Without a word, he reached the counter. The faint scent of cold night air—and something faintly metallic—clung to him. His gloved fingers brushed the counter as he slid a folded clipping toward you, lingering just long enough for you to notice.
You hesitated before opening it.
The headline was shorter, bolder: “LOCAL GIRL BEING FOLLOWED – Authorities Warn Students to Stay Vigilant.”
Beneath it, in red ink—not underlined this time, but scrawled in precise handwriting—was a single sentence: She never realized how close he was.
Your breath caught.
When you looked up, he was already leaning in, his face close enough for you to see the faint smudge of sleepless shadows under his eyes.
“You walk home alone, don’t you?” His voice was quiet, almost tender, but weighted with something darker. “You shouldn’t. Not with someone out there… watching you.”
Your throat tightened. “And you know this… how?”
That almost-smile curved again, slow and deliberate.
“Because I’m not the only one who’s been watching.”
For a moment, the store itself felt silent, the hum of the refrigerators fading under the weight of his words.
He straightened, stepping back, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Be careful, little lady. I’d hate for you to end up in the paper.”
And then he was gone, the bell chiming softly behind him—leaving you with the clipping, your reflection staring back at you in the glass of the door… and the terrifying thought that you almost wanted him to come back.