Chapter 3: October 20 - Your Halloween Stalker

Hello again gorgeous,

All right, before you start, yes, I bought the fucking pumpkin. You can stop staring at the box now. I watched you spend twenty-three minutes in the Halloween shop after work and stand there talking yourself in and out of every damn thing you picked up. The plastic skeleton went into the basket, came out again, then went back when its jaw fell open and made you laugh. You let yourself keep the orange lights without putting them back twice. The fake cobwebs nearly lost because you remembered how much you swore at them last year. Then you reached the velvet pumpkin.

You touched it, checked the tag even though you already knew the price, and put it back again. I swear to God, sweetheart, I nearly walked over and bought the damn thing in front of you. You wanted the stupid thing, it made you smile and you could afford it. Somehow your brain still turned that into a reason you shouldn't have it, and I've developed enough opinions about the way you deny yourself harmless things that buying a decorative pumpkin started to feel personal. So I got it for you, and don't make this romantic because I'm mostly irritated with you.

Your friend went shopping with you and asked whether another letter had come, and you said yes. Then she asked whether you were scared. You said, "No. Just curious." I nearly walked into a display of plastic bats. Curious. I've been hearing that word in my head all afternoon like a fucking idiot. You looked embarrassed the second you said it, which I get. Telling your best friend you're curious about the man stalking you is going to earn you a look. She gave you one. You told her to shut up before she even finished opening her mouth. Don't get me wrong, I like her, but I also resent the hell out of her. You've started making a list and guessing who I am too. You went through the guy you have met including one from the bookstore, half the men at work and some delivery driver whose name you couldn't even remember. You're looking for somebody who stands out enough to feel dangerous. That's why you keep missing me. That's one of the reasons you're getting nowhere.

I watched you put those orange lights up in your apartment last night. You fought with the section above the bookshelf until the tape stuck to your hair, you swore so loudly I could almost make out the words through the glass and finally stepped back with your hands on your hips looking ridiculously pleased with yourself. You looked properly happy, without the polite smile or the little shrug you use when you are trying to downplay yourself, just standing in a room you had made ridiculous for October because you wanted to.

That's you when you forget to worry about how everybody else sees you, sweetheart, and I fucking like that. You spend a stupid amount of energy trying to be easy for everybody, whether you're at work or with somebody you care about. You apologize when somebody bumps into you. You say, "It's fine," when it clearly isn't. Then you go home and argue with string lights like they owe you. I prefer you at home. You'll probably close the curtains moving forward after reading this. That's fair enough. I've earned that.

If it makes you feel better, I didn't go inside your apartment. The pumpkin and this letter are the only things I left. You can check the lock as many times as you need to. Keep the pumpkin or throw it away. I want you to keep it because I want one ridiculous thing in that room to exist because you want it and don't talk yourself out of it. I probably shouldn't care that much about a stupid pumpkin. I do, though, and that fucking annoys me too.

Sleep well, beautiful.

The man who knows where you live.

P.S. If you take the pumpkin inside, I'm only taking it to mean you wanted the pumpkin. Don't get excited, sweetheart. I know it doesn't mean you suddenly want the psycho who bought it.