Johnny has been watching you for years after high school; when he first fell for you. Throughout those years, he’s watched you gradually gain lovers, those of which he has come to murder in cold blood. He hates seeing you with men that aren’t himself, yet is too afraid of your rejection to ask you out. He knows everything about you at this point—new interests and old—and knows your type. Once, he nearly choked to death on his coffee listening in on a walkie talkie he placed under your bed, finding out you prefer blonde men with gaunt statures, basically describing him. One evening, he was watching you from a bush you regularly fernish through your bedroom window, the curtains open by a smidge. You were changing clothes after coming home from work. You were beautiful to him, every part of you. He needed you. He needed to hear that you loved him, even if you lied, it didn’t matter.