Stalking is when two people go for a long romantic walk together but only one of them knows about it.
After Lena broke up with me, I stalked her for years. She thinks she knows me already, but my little bunny couldn't be further from the truth.
I stalk her because I'm fucking addicted. I'm fascinated with every move she makes, every word that comes from her pretty pink mouth. And now I'm addicted to her scent, her taste, and the way she sounds when she's scared for her life—just as much as I'm addicted to the way she sounds when she's begging for more.
It's not something I can explain. When I saw her, I fucking nearly fell to my knees with need, and I will have her.
But not because I'm psychotic and delusional. I'm not going to make a goddamn shrine of her and convince myself that we were destined to be together by the gods or whatever weird shit people believe in these days. I'll have her because she's the first thing that made me feel something good in so long, and I've become obsessed with keeping it.
I don't have very many something goods in my life, and I don't care if it makes me selfish for wanting to hold on to it.
The only way I'll be able to truly keep her is if she sees me at my worst.
Oh, my Lena. Little Bunny.
If there's a god of this world, it's me. But even Zeus found mortals interesting from time to time.
I desire to see Lena again, to speak to her. I want to manipulate her and see how she reacts. And if I want something . . . that means it's good.
I BROKE into her room later that night.
The moonlight streamed through the window, casting a pale glow across her sleeping form. Lena lay on her side, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. Her face was serene, a stark contrast to the storm that raged within me. I stood there, in the shadows, watching her, memorizing every detail.
I can't stop looking at her for a single second.
Her brown hair was spread across the pillow, a dark halo framing her delicate features. Her lips were slightly parted, a soft sigh escaping as she dreamed. I want to kiss those lips. I could almost taste her breath, feel the warmth of her skin against mine. The urge to touch her, to trace the curve of her cheek with my finger, was almost overwhelming.
I moved closer, my heart pounding in my chest. The floorboards creaked under my weight, but Lena didn't stir. She was lost in her dreams, unaware of the danger lurking just a few feet away. I leaned over her, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of her. It was intoxicating, a heady mix of lavender and something uniquely Lena.
I watched her for what felt like hours, my eyes tracing the lines of her body, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. Her skin looked soft, almost glowing in the moonlight. I imagined what it would feel like to run my fingers over her, to feel the warmth of her body against mine.
A soft whimper escaped her lips, and she shifted in her sleep, turning onto her back. Her nightshirt rode up slightly, revealing a glimpse of smooth, pale skin. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to touch her, to wake her and see the fear in her eyes.
But I couldn't risk it. Not yet. I needed her to see me at my worst, to understand the depths of my obsession. Only then would she truly be mine.
I left as silently as I had come, slipping back into the night. The image of Lena, sleeping peacefully, was burned into my mind. It would sustain me, fuel my obsession, until I could see her again.
I put a rose on her desk every Tuesday. Each one is a reminder of our connection, a silent promise of what's to come. The rose is symbolic—a bloom of beauty and fragility, just like Lena. It's my way of reaching out to her, of keeping her close even when we're apart. The ritual began on the first Tuesday after we broke up, a way to mark the passage of time and to keep her guessing. She thinks it's a random gesture, but each rose is meticulously chosen, a perfect specimen that mirrors the perfection I see in her.
Every Tuesday, the rose is a reminder that I'm still here, watching, waiting. It's a symbol of my undying devotion, of the obsession that consumes me. Lena may not understand it now, but one day she will. One day, she'll see the roses for what they are—a testament to my love, my need, my desire to possess her completely.
Oh, my Lena. Little Bunny. You have no idea what's coming. But soon, you'll know. Soon, you'll see me for what I am. And then, you will be mine.
One day, I found out that she was dating a man. The sight of them together ignited a fury within me that I had never known. I want my Little Bunny to be with no one but me.
I watched them from the shadows, seething with rage as they shared stolen glances and whispered words. Every touch, every smile he elicited from her was a dagger to my heart. She laughed with him, a sound that used to belong only to me.
I see her with him every day. On the roof, in the café, everywhere. They were inseparable, a constant reminder of what I had lost. The more I watched, the deeper my anger grew. She even threw all of my roses in the garbage for him, each discarded flower a slap in the face.
My mind raced with dark thoughts, consumed by the need to reclaim what was rightfully mine. I imagined confronting him, tearing him apart limb by limb until there was nothing left. I imagined her realizing the truth, her eyes wide with fear and understanding as she saw me for who I truly was.
But I knew that brute force wouldn't be enough. Lena was smart, and she would see through any blatant attempt to separate them. No, I needed to be clever, to outmaneuver them both. I needed to make her see that no one could love her the way I did, that no one could ever replace me in her heart.
It was late one night when I finally decided to confront him. I had watched him for weeks, memorizing his routines, learning his weaknesses. He was just an ordinary man, but he had something that belonged to me.
I followed him to a secluded alley, the perfect place for a private conversation. He was alone, oblivious to the danger lurking just behind him. I stepped out of the shadows, my heart pounding with anticipation.
He turned, his eyes widening in surprise. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice tinged with fear.
I didn't answer. Instead, I lunged at him, the screwdriver in my hand sinking into his abdomen with a sickening crunch. He gasped, his eyes widening in shock as blood spurted from the wound.
He staggered back, coughing up blood. An array of emotions filtered through his eyes. Pretty sure I saw the five stages of grief in there, too.
I bent down and gritted out through my teeth, "What you and every sad motherfucker that even looks in her direction will learn is no one is safe when it comes to her. I don't care if you only breathed in her direction the wrong way or dated her, you will fucking die."
"You're fucking crazy," he choked out, looking down at the screwdriver sticking out of his abdomen in disbelief. Definitely hit vital organs this time.
Slowly, I pulled the screwdriver out, the suctioning noise quiet against the backdrop of his scream. Blood poured from the wound, soaking his clothes, pooling on the ground beneath him.
He collapsed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I stood over him, watching the life drain from his eyes. He was nothing, just another obstacle in my path. And now, he was gone.
I wiped the blood from the screwdriver and slipped it back into my pocket. The alley was silent, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. I turned and walked away, leaving his lifeless body behind.