I had begun to convince myself I was imagining things. The shadows, the feeling of being followed, the subtle prickle of unease that had settled into my chest. After Ethan left, it was easier to tell myself it was my mind, unraveling, that heartbreak had made me paranoid. But the city doesn't forgive denial. It doesn't care if you're fragile, lonely, or distracted. And neither, it seemed, did he.
I first noticed him on a Tuesday. I was walking home from the bookstore, my arms full of novels I couldn't stop myself from buying, when I felt it—the unmistakable weight of eyes on me.
I froze on the sidewalk, heart hammering. My eyes darted around, trying to find a figure, a shadow, anyone. Nothing. The street was empty. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting long, uneven shadows across the wet pavement. A breeze whispered through the alleyways, carrying the faint scent of rain and exhaust.
I forced a laugh, trying to convince myself it was nothing. Just my imagination. Maybe a passerby I hadn't noticed. But even as I told myself that, I felt it again—the faint, deliberate echo of footsteps falling slightly behind mine, keeping pace, not quite matching, but never disappearing entirely.
I didn't look back. I couldn't. Fear has a strange way of rooting you to the present, forcing your eyes forward, demanding your legs keep moving even when your mind screams stop.
By the time I reached my apartment building, I had convinced myself again that it was a coincidence. A trick of sound. A shadow cast too sharply in the streetlight. I fumbled with my keys, glancing at the empty doorway, hoping that somehow, the eyes, the presence, the watcher, were gone.
And then he appeared.
I didn't see him at first—just a figure moving from the darkness near the entrance of the building. He stepped into the light, and my breath caught. He was tall, impeccably dressed in dark clothing that made him seem like part of the shadows themselves. His hair was dark, eyes sharp and piercing, and there was an intensity in the way he looked at me that I couldn't explain. Not curiosity, not friendliness, not malice exactly—it was something else. Something magnetic.
I froze. My mind raced. Who was he? Stranger, stalker, thief, danger?
"Are you okay?" His voice was smooth, deep, almost too calm.
I blinked, startled. I wanted to step back, to bolt, to scream, but something in the way he stood, his unwavering gaze, held me in place. "I… I'm fine," I stammered, my voice smaller than I wanted.
He tilted his head slightly, just enough for me to notice the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes seemed to study me, weigh me. "You don't look fine," he said softly. Not accusatory. Observant. Careful.
I wanted to tell him to leave. I wanted to turn and slam the door behind me. But curiosity, and something darker, a pull I didn't want to understand, rooted me there. "I'm… just tired," I muttered.
He didn't move. Didn't smile. Just let his presence fill the space between us. And in that moment, I realized something terrifying: I didn't want him to leave.
I pushed the door open and hurried inside, fumbling with the lock, heart hammering. When I glanced back over my shoulder, he was gone. Just… gone. Like a shadow that had never been there at all.
The encounter left me trembling, a cocktail of fear and fascination that made no sense. I tried to shake it off, telling myself it was coincidence, a stranger noticing a girl in the dark. But the memory of his eyes, the weight of his presence, refused to leave me.
The days that followed were worse. I started seeing him in fleeting moments—on the street corner, across the café, sometimes just a shadow at the edge of my vision. Always there. Always watching. Always carefully hidden in the periphery. I couldn't explain why it unsettled me so much, why my chest tightened and my stomach twisted, why I felt a dangerous thrill in the pit of me at the sight of him.
Maya noticed my change first. "You're… distracted," she said one evening, eyes narrowing as we sat in my apartment. "And jumpy. You're acting like… like someone's following you."
I laughed it off, brushing my hair behind my ears, but my hand shook slightly. "No one's following me. I'm just… tired. Ethan's gone, I'm stressed. That's all."
She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. She never did push when I tried to mask the truth. And truthfully, I didn't even fully understand it myself.
Then, the dreams began. Shadowed figures at the edge of the room, the soft whisper of steps in the hallway, the sensation of someone sitting on the edge of my bed, watching, waiting. I woke gasping more than once, heart racing, drenched in sweat. Something had found me, and it wasn't going away.
I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. I wanted to forget it all. But the pull, the magnetic danger in the glimpses of him, kept me rooted. I didn't understand it yet. I didn't want to.
And that's when I realized the hardest truth: fear is only half of what keeps you alive. Desire—the forbidden, the dangerous, the intoxicating—makes you stay. Makes you look back, again and again, despite everything you know about yourself, about the world.
The city had grown darker that week, or maybe I had. The shadows weren't just corners or alleys anymore—they were alive, and they knew my name. And in the midst of that darkness, he was there. Waiting. Watching. Patient.
I didn't know it yet, but the first threads of my obsession were already being woven. A pull I couldn't resist, a danger I couldn't see fully, and a man who would change my life in ways I couldn't imagine… and might not survive.