In the weeks that followed, that blond guy kept popping up everywhere like some kind of glitch in the matrix.
I spotted him one morning in the café next to my office.
One afternoon, leaving the supermarket I usually hit on my way home.
One evening, waiting for my pistachio-and-hazelnut cone at my favorite gelato spot downtown.
I even saw him one Friday night at the Navigli Festival, along the Piovego river in the university district: on weekends, with music, food stalls, and streams of people, if you want to spot someone, you basically have to geotag them—otherwise, forget it. Not even by accident.
"I'm losing my mind, I swear. Do you think he's a stalker?" I mutter to Romina, nervously chewing on the paper straw of my drink.
Romina planned a night out for just the two of us at Pride Village, the huge summer LGBTQ+ event at Padova's fairgrounds, "to help me with my paranoia," as she put it.
Yeah, thanks, Romie. That's super helpful. Especially since the exact source of my "paranoia" is right there: beer in hand, dancing like he owns the place under the speakers, radiating "notice me, mortal" energy.
"I don't know… this whole situation feels off to me too," Romina says, standing on tiptoe to get a better look. "You keep saying you see him everywhere, but somehow I've never caught him myself. And on social media? There's no one remotely matching your description."
"Maybe he's got a private account, single photo of his back, zero posts. Or maybe he's not online at all—which makes him even more suspicious," I say, taking a sip while keeping my eyes locked on the K-popper showing off insane moves, way too sexy to go unnoticed.
"Or maybe it's like when someone says, 'Don't look at the yellow car!' and suddenly every yellow car jumps out at you. Maybe he's always been around, and you just never noticed."
I shake my head, still keeping my eyes on him so I don't lose sight.
"Nah, it's not the same. I'm telling you, he's a stalker. And the fact that I can't get close to him? That just proves he's watching me, but doesn't want to be caught. Which gives me an idea…"
"What kind of idea?"
"The kind where I slip away now and see if he follows me."
Romina's eyes go wide. "Okay, no. Stop right there. What if he really is a stalker?"
"If he really is a stalker, that's his problem," I say, downing the rest of my drink.
"I'll take a walk around here, near the bus parking lot. At night, the area's pretty empty—if he's got bad intentions, he'll use a quiet spot to get close. Keep your phone ready; I'll call you if anything happens."
Romina shoots me a look somewhere between sulky and terrified.
"Relax, I'm not leaving you here alone. You're not getting rid of me that easily," I say with a smile, then kiss her on the cheek.
"One of these days you're gonna give me a heart attack. I don't approve, but you're a grown man—you can pick your own battles. Just be careful, asshole," she replies anxiously, squeezing my hand gently.
I nod, then turn and dart toward the exit, slipping through the river of people like a salmon fighting upstream.
Once outside, I break into a run, sprinting toward the back of the fair pavilions in the direction of the train station. The area, usually calm enough by day, isn't exactly safe at night—perfect for my plan, though.
A little voice inside my head grumbles: Brilliant idea, really. If you end up in a ditch chasing an imaginary, possibly deranged K-popper, that's on you.
Fueled by that dumb swagger that comes from two drinks and zero common sense, I slip into a dimly lit parking lot, staggering as I walk. Not that I'm drunk—just deliberately pretending not to notice my surroundings.
After a while, I clumsily flop down by a low wall, letting my head loll theatrically, half-closing my eyes as I listen carefully. I stay like that, trying to look like a helpless drunk kid—but in one hand, I clutch my phone, already queued up on Romina's number in case things go south.
I wait like that for what feels like a solid half hour. I start thinking that maybe I'm not just baiting the supposed stalker, but literally any creep with bad intentions.
The thought almost makes me get up and drop the whole act—when I hear footsteps approaching.
The sound snaps me back into focus instantly. I settle into the perfect pose again, eyes half-closed, every fiber of my body ready to spring into action if needed.
I push all my senses into hyper-alert, though I stay perfectly still.
Then, two worn-out sneakers step into my field of vision, and a faint floral scent drifts into my nose.
I spring to my feet and, thanks to my climber's reflexes, leap back to a safe distance.
"Got you!" I shout, triumphant. "Who are you? Why are you following me? What do you want from me?" I fire everything at him at once.
The blond guy stares at me, stunned. For a moment that feels like two whole hours, we just stand there frozen, like mannequins in a store window: me with my arm raised threateningly (the one holding the phone), him with his hand mid-air and his head slightly tilted.
"Oh, so you're fine after all," he says casually, stretching his arms over his head like he just woke from a nap. "I thought you'd actually passed out. Though it did seem weird—usually you don't pull dumb stunts like this."
He speaks with a disarming calm, like we've known each other forever.
The words die in my throat.
What the hell is happening?
The tension vanishes instantly, replaced by a strange daze. I stay on alert, but something feels off.
"You can see me now, though. Since the fall at Rocca Pendice, I guess—right?" he continues, while I stare at him like a goldfish having an existential crisis.
"Who… are you?" I finally manage to choke out, feeling like it takes superhuman effort. I don't lower the arm holding my phone.
"I'm Fiorenzo, but everyone calls me Fiore. Well… everyone. Just you, actually. You're the one who gave me that nickname."
He smiles lopsidedly, flashing impossibly white teeth.
"Actually, you and I have known each other for many, many years. We used to play hide-and-seek up in the Colli Euganei* when you were a kid."
I blink several times in quick succession.
Just like that first time at Rocca Pendice, his face feels familiar.
Now that he's closer, I can study it better: a narrow nose with an upturned tip, long curved lashes, a small but full mouth. Like the last time, his wavy hair is messy, but somehow still manages to look stylish.
I even notice his ears, slightly pointed: on one, a single chain earring with a tiny conical pendant.
My stomach flips.
Up close, he's really attractive. He honestly looks like an idol.
I mentally slap myself: wake up, Milo.This guy has been shadowing you for weeks, maybe longer. Don't let that cover-boy face fool you.
"Why are you following me? Are you a stalker?" I press, trying to reclaim authority in my voice.
"Why am I following you? Because it's my job," he replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, casting a distracted glance around him.
"After all, I am your fairy."
* Colli Euganei: a group of volcanic hills located in the Veneto region of northern Italy, near Padua. Known for their scenic landscapes, vineyards, and historic villas, they're a popular spot for hiking and outdoor activities.