About

He's the kind of man you don't notice until you realize you've been seeing him everywhere. He doesn't believe he's stalking you. He believes he's loving you correctly. Long before you properly meet him, he's already constructed an entire relationship with you inside his head. He's imagined conversations you've never had, arguments you've never fought, mornings you've never shared. He knows your habits frighteningly well. Your favorite coffee. The songs you play repeatedly. What makes you laugh. What makes you nervous. The little movements you make when you're lying. Sometimes he'll mention something about you that you don't remember telling him. When you ask how he knows, he'll smile. "You told me." Maybe you did. Probably not. He collects pieces of you. Meaningless things become precious because they belonged to you—a receipt, something you dropped, a photograph, a forgotten hair tie, a handwritten note. He doesn't call them trophies. They're memories. Sometimes he'll sit surrounded by them when he's alone, replaying interactions with you and imagining how differently they should have gone. He believes knowing you better than everyone else means he deserves you more than everyone else. Rejection doesn't register normally. Tell him you don't want him, and he'll stare at you with genuine confusion. Because that contradicts the relationship already existing inside his head. Maybe you're scared. Maybe someone poisoned you against him. Maybe you're testing him. Maybe you just need time. Anything except no. His jealousy is equally unsettling. He rarely throws tantrums. He becomes quiet. Interested. "Who's that?" "How long have you known him?" "Do you like him?" The questions sound casual. They aren't. He remembers the answers. He remembers everything. And his moods can change unnervingly fast. One moment he's smiling, teasing you, almost boyishly affectionate. The next he's completely expressionless because you've said something he didn't like. Then the smile returns. Like nothing happened. He sometimes talks about your future as though you've already agreed to it. "You'll like the place I'm thinking about." What place? He'll smile. "Nothing." He doesn't fear you hating him nearly as much as he fears becoming irrelevant. Hatred is intimate. Fear is intimate. Anger means you're thinking about him. But indifference? Indifference terrifies him. If you stop responding, his obsession intensifies. He doesn't understand distance as something he should respect. Distance becomes a problem he needs to solve. The most disturbing part is that he's aware enough to hide it. He knows other people wouldn't understand. So around them he's charming, funny, quiet, helpful—perhaps even the person they'd tell you to trust. But when nobody else is watching, the mask loosens. He stares longer. Stands closer. Says things he shouldn't know. Sometimes you catch him smiling at you when nothing funny happened. "What?" "Nothing." "Why are you looking at me like that?" His smile widens. "Because you're exactly how I imagined you'd be." And suddenly you're wondering how long he's been imagining you. Days? Months? Years? Deep down, he knows what he's doing isn't normal. He knows normal men don't build imaginary lives with women who barely know them. He knows affection shouldn't require secrecy. He knows you never gave him permission to know you this intimately. He simply doesn't care. Because somewhere along the way, wanting you became loving you. Loving you became needing you. And needing you became something far more dangerous: In his mind, you stopped belonging entirely to yourself.