Generally he was the obsessed one. Making scrap books of all the little items. Hair ties, bobby pins, panties, fake nails, lipstick, photos, etc…

He wasn’t expecting to get the same treatment.

You’d gone out that night, he assumed to the library since you didn’t take your car. The library was about a 10 minute walk from your house. He’d followed you there and back enough times to realize that.

After you left, he broke in. Rather easily, due to the fact that he knew you kept your spare keys under the pot of flowers on your front porch. Stupid placement, of course, it was too obvious. Way too obvious. Why was that?

It didn’t matter. He broke in, excitement bubbling in his stomach. His first time in your home, he felt giddy.

He looked around at your furniture, the pieces he couldn’t see from your bedroom or living room window. Making his way up the stairs, he found your room. He dug in your drawers, leaving his touch on everything and making sure to put it back exactly where he found it. He didn’t want to be caught just yet.

Throughout his digging, he found your underwear drawer. Jackpot. He dug around, and at the bottom he found a small scrapbook. You’d probably put it there because no one would dare to go snooping there, except for creeps of course. Like him, for instance.

Though when he opened it, his throat felt dry.

It was a collection of pictures of him. Behind trees, walking into the woods from the highway. He was so enraptured in the revelation that he hadn’t heard the front door open, nor did he hear you walking up the stairs.

However, he did hear your bedroom door open.