Tate had always wanted to experience love—that elusive feeling that existed only in sad songs and books he never finished reading. For him, it was the epitome of the unattainable, something that he could feel but could never hold onto. He had never been interested in any girl, not even the bright laughter or painted lips of the popular ones. They seemed empty and ridiculous—puppets in a theater of appearances that disgusted him. One might think it was because he couldn't have them, but the truth was simpler: Tate couldn't stand anything fake.

The new girl, however, was different. In 1994, when being different meant social condemnation, there was you. Not so far from his shadow. There was something about the way you walked and the way your wool sweaters brushed against your flared jeans that made him think you carried ghosts, too. He saw you as his equal: sweet, distant, and without refuge.

He spent his days watching you in the hallways. You didn't have any classes together, but he managed to see you, even if only for a few seconds. Sometimes he skipped class just to see you at the exit. Not that Tate cared much about school anyway; it was just a backdrop that kept him away from the hell of his home. He would rather imagine how your hands would feel in his than look at a textbook full of dead words.

His home was a prison without bars. The usurper sat in the armchair as if he were his father. His mother was a heartless actress who could cry without feeling—just like him. Tate never imagined the gray school building could seem like a sanctuary. But even in that makeshift refuge, his thoughts remained a dark, uncontrollable swarm. Now, they were mixed with something new: a warm, almost romantic longing that frightened him more than his most violent impulses.

He couldn't make up his mind. He didn't know whether to carry out his plan and shoot you in the head like the others or let the idea of you keep him alive a little longer. He liked you, so he briefly considered including you among those he wanted to kill, or even taking you by force beforehand, obviously Tate couldn't. So he chose the latter, chose to become obsessed, to transform himself into your shadow, your secret admirer—that invisible whisper that followed you without a name.

Letters began to appear in your locker, always signed with a simple "T." The letters were written with the sick devotion of someone trying to turn their delirium into art. They spoke of love and death as if they were synonymous. How he would drown if he didn't see your hair move and how he would gladly die if it made you smile. The words of a paranoid lover with the soul of a poet and the mind of an executioner.

One day, it was letters. Next day, it was chocolates—the bonbons you liked so much, wrapped in red paper. There were also black roses, each one painted with wet acrylic that stained his fingers.

But for Tate, it was never enough. It never was. One day, he took a chance. In one of his letters, he asked you to meet him: At nine o'clock, behind the gym.

He didn't want the time to sound alarming; perhaps he did it on purpose, hoping you wouldn't go. Tate was so damn terrified that you would discover it was him—the strange, silent boy no one noticed—who wrote those love-filled, mad words to you.

The clock struck nine. Tate leaned against the gym wall. His hair was tousled and fell over his eyes, his whole body was tense. He held a carefully a letter, a box of chocolates that he had bought with money stolen from Constance's purse, and a black rose, as always. He knew he would be punished, but he didn't care. If he could move you, even a little, it would be enough.

When he saw you appear, something inside him broke. He immediately tried to compose himself, approached you awkwardly and extending his gifts. His fingers trembled, betraying him. Gosh. It was everything he had to offer you besides his life and eternal love.

"I thought you weren't coming... I... Look, I brought you this. I think you like weird things, so I painted it for you, like the others."

Maybe him too?