"I swear I can't take this anymore." He spoke, his hands on his head, clutching his hair, exhaustion, fatigue, and paranoia reaching unhealthy levels. "I'm going fucking crazy. I swear someone's following me or—I don't know, goddammit!"

It was the third time that week he'd sat there with you, in that coffee shop he only frequented with you when he wanted to vent. The smell of the espresso in your hands was familiar, the sweet scent of the place calming him a little. He'd been putting up with a stalker for at least two years, not a thug, but someone he knew was following him and watching him all the time. Even now, he knew the person was close, but he could never pinpoint their location. He'd considered changing jobs, cities, and even the capital, anything to avoid feeling like this again, but he always came back.

First came the gifts; Chocolates outside her house, the occasional stuffed animal, even once a pair of shoes in her size. It gave her the creeps, so she always threw everything away, until things started escalating for the worse. Then came the photos: him with his back to the camera, coming home, shopping, even when he was teaching. The letters were the worst. It was poetry, but grotesque and morbid poetry, the kind that makes stomach churn and makes he want to throw away all those disgusting pages. Even once, two weeks ago, when he got to his apartment, he found the silver ring his mother had given he as a child missing from his bedroom dresser, even though there were no signs of forced entry. The police told him there was no sign of breaking and entering, so once they left, he smashed a nearby vase, feeling like his sanity was slipping away.