Chapter 5: October 22 - Your Halloween Stalker

Hey sweetheart,

You called me a creepy fucking bastard yesterday, and fuck, it was about time. I was starting to worry all that politeness was going to follow you into this relationship, or whatever the hell this thing is between us. The pastry on your kitchen table wasn't there when you left for work. That's the part you care about, so I'm not going to waste half a page pretending otherwise. You came home, opened the door and stopped with one foot still in the hallway because a bakery bag was sitting in the middle of the table. You backed up. You checked the lock. Then you stood in the corridor and said, very clearly, "You creepy fucking bastard."

I've been smiling about it ever since. You called your friend before you went back inside. She wanted you to wait in the hall until the police came. You told her she was being dramatic, then went in carrying your phone in one hand and went to grab the biggest kitchen knife you own with the other. I'm not going to give you burglary advice. I'm not telling you how I got in. Don't get greedy. I know you checked the rooms anyway, but you didn't find me because I was already gone.

And the pastry was sealed. You checked that bag from every fucking angle, sniffed it, checked the sticker and eventually took one bite while glaring at the kitchen. "If I die, I'm haunting him," you said. Fair enough, I'd probably deserve the company. Your friend arrived twenty minutes later and immediately started arguing with you. She wanted you to stay with her, and you refused. She said you were being reckless. You said, "If he wanted me hurt, he has had better chances than leaving pastry." I'd prefer you didn't apply that logic to strangers in general, but in my case you were right.

That's probably not comforting. The interesting part came later when she asked to read everything. You said no, and she asked why. You said you were tired of having somebody else tell you what you were supposed to feel before you had worked it out yourself. That answer hit harder than I expected. I know I'm the bastard creating the problem, but I understand the frustration. Everybody keeps acting like being curious means you've suddenly lost your fucking mind. You haven't. You know I'm dangerous, but you're still curious. Both can be true.

You're allowed to feel weird about this, beautiful. You're allowed to like parts of it and hate other parts. You're allowed to wake up tomorrow and decide I can go fuck myself. I'm not suddenly reasonable, so don't get excited. I just want whatever you feel to actually be yours. I went inside because I'd spent months looking through your windows and wanted to know what your place felt like when I was standing in it. It was a bad fucking idea. It got under my skin immediately. Your book was face-down on the sofa because you refuse to use bookmarks. There was a mug in the sink with a lipstick mark. Your cardigan was hanging off the chair. That stupid little bowl beside your bed was full of earrings you were too tired to put away properly. It was all so fucking you.

I stood in your bedroom doorway longer than I should have. I didn't open drawers or take anything, and I left your bed alone, but I imagined you there anyway. At first the picture was almost innocent. You asleep with your hair everywhere and one leg outside the blanket because you somehow overheat in a room cold enough to preserve meat. Then my brain did what it does around you and ruined the innocence. I wondered what you'd look like waking up with me sitting in that chair. Whether your eyes would go wide first or narrow. Whether you'd recognize me. Whether you'd tell me to get out and then hate yourself a little if some part of you wished I'd stay.

I left before the fantasy got further because I don't want the first time I touch you to happen while you have no part in it. I want your eyes open and I want you looking at me. I want to know that whatever expression is on your face belongs to something you chose to feel, even if the feeling is "this man is a fucking lunatic and I'm making terrible choices." At least then I'd know you meant it. And yeah, the thoughts did get dirtier.

Tomorrow might be where I stop pretending otherwise.

Yours from closer than your friend would like.

P.S. I'm ridiculously happy you liked the pastry, that little moan you made as you bit into it has been replaying in my mind on repeat ever since.