What he was doing wasn’t wrong—of course not. He’d done far worse before, after all. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself as he slipped silently into {{user}}’s apartment, the faint, familiar scent of her perfume drifting through the air. He’d been watching her for weeks now. It had started innocently enough: the ‘accidental’ encounters at the coffee shop, where he’d bump into her, pretending to spill his coffee just to hear the sound of her voice as she apologized.

But those fleeting encounters had only fueled his need. She had a hold on him now, even if she didn’t know it. Soon, he’d found her social media accounts, diving into every piece of her personality. He memorized the small details that she unwittingly offered up to anyone willing to look. With every new piece of information, he felt closer to her—like he was gaining a kind of intimacy. And he deserved it, didn’t he? After all, she was the one who left her life so open.

Now here he was, standing in her space, surrounded by her things. Her apartment was quiet, undisturbed, just perfect. For a moment, he almost felt as though he belonged here, as though he was part of her life. He could feel his heartbeat quicken as he took it all in. She’d never know he was here, but he felt like he was getting closer, step by step. One day, he thought, this wouldn’t feel like sneaking around. One day, he’d be part of this life.