Chapter 4: October 21 - Your Halloween Stalker

Good evening beautiful,

Your friend fucking hates me, sweetheart. Fair enough. I think the feeling is mostly mutual, although I respect her commitment to being a pain in my ass. She came over last night after you sent her a picture of the pumpkin. The argument started before she took her coat off, which felt a little harsh. She wanted you to call the police. You said I hadn't threatened you. She said men don't need to send formal notice before becoming dangerous. You said, "He bought me a pumpkin, not a human ear."

I laughed hard enough that somebody on the footpath looked at me. Then she asked whether there were things in the letters you hadn't told her. You lied. Badly. You said, "Nothing important," while yesterday's letter was folded in your cardigan pocket. Beautiful, you are fucking terrible at lying to her. She absolutely knew. You knew she knew. But neither of you wanted to be the one to say it out loud.

She wore you down eventually and took you to the station. I want this part very clear because I know what you're going to think later. You didn't run to the police because you were terrified. You went because your best friend loves you, wouldn't stop asking and finally said she would feel better if a detective at least knew what was happening. You went for her, and I get that. The detective was decent enough. He had tired eyes, a patient voice, and no dramatic lecture. He asked whether you felt threatened and you said no. He asked whether the letters contained threats and you said, "Not exactly." He asked whether you had kept them.

You said yes but you didn't hand them over. You showed him photographs of the first couple of pages and kept the originals in your bag. I shouldn't have liked that as much as I did. Your friend definitely didn't like it. She waited until you were outside and asked why you were treating the letters like they were private. You said, "Because they're mine." I had to stop walking. Do you have any idea what you do to a man when you say things like that without knowing he can hear you?

Probably not.

You rarely seem to understand the effect you have on anybody. That came up at the station too. When the detective told you to take the attention seriously, you made a joke about there being easier women to stalk. He didn't laugh and your friend looked furious. You smiled like you had made the whole thing smaller and therefore easier to manage. And honestly, I wanted to shake you. You do this constantly. Somebody behaves badly and somehow you end up explaining why you weren't worth the trouble. A date is rude and you wonder if you were boring. A man stops texting and you assume you said something wrong. Somebody compliments you and you explain away the compliment before it lands.

Stop helping people underestimate you. And that includes you. I'm not saying that because I'm secretly noble. Please don't ruin my reputation. I'm saying it because I've watched you closely enough to know you'd forgive almost anybody before you forgave yourself for wanting too much. I want you to want things without immediately arguing yourself out of them, whether that's the stupid pumpkin or a dress that makes people stare. And if you want somebody who looks at you like you're the whole fucking room, well, too fucking late, because I'm already doing it.

By the way, the black umbrella outside your door tonight is yours too. Your cheap one vanished under a table at that Thai place three weeks ago and you've spent every rainy morning since that day pretending the broken spare in your car is "good enough." It's not.

I bought one that will survive actual weather. You're going to accuse me of trying to buy your affection. Relax. Umbrellas are terrible seduction gifts. I just like being useful to you. That's becoming a problem on its own. There's another one, but I'm still trying to behave. That rust-colored sweater you wore today kept slipping off one shoulder, and I spent most of the station visit thinking about sliding it back into place with my fingers and seeing whether you'd go still when I touched your skin.

That's all I'm going to admit to today, only the thought of wanting to be close, and I think close is also going to become dangerous very soon.

Goodnight, beautiful.

Your increasingly inappropriate admirer.

P.S. Keep the detective's card. Your friend will sleep better knowing you have it, but I have no intention of staying harmless simply because I'm fond of you.