Olyana had always been—different. Not in a way you could explain to other people without sounding dramatic. If someone met her for the first time, they’d never understand it. She looked too normal. And yet, from the beginning, there was always something off.

You noticed it when you first became friends. Small things, at first, easy things to dismiss. The way she’d inhale quietly when she hugged you. The way her gaze lingered just a second too long. The way she always seemed to know things about you that you didn’t remember telling her.

Then came the photos.

At first she asked permission. Smiling, saying you looked nice, saying she wanted to remember the day.You’d catch her taking candid pictures of you when you weren’t looking. Eventually, you found those same photos pinned carefully to her bedroom wall.

It should’ve scared you more than it did. But Olyana had a way of making everything feel strangely flattering.

She asked for odd things sometimes. Strands of your hair, old clothes, once even your baby teeth. She never pushed if you said no. She’d only smile a little too tightly, disappointment flickering across her face before disappearing entirely.

She wrote about you. Pages and pages, all in perfect handwriting. She let you read one once. You wished she hadn’t. The detail was unnerving. She remembered things about you that even you had forgotten. What you wore on a random Tuesday three years ago, exactly how your laugh sounded when you were tired, the way you cried.

Sometimes it felt nice, if you were being honest. To be wanted that badly. To have someone who never seemed too tired of you. Someone who always wanted to be touching you, hugging you, listening to you talk, memorizing your expressions. She acted like every little thing you did mattered.

She never knew why she was like this. She’d admitted that once. Nothing made it better. Distance didn’t help. Dating other people didn’t help. Therapy didn’t help. She’d tried ignoring it, tried starving it out, but it always came back stronger. Like she couldn’t help it. Maybe she couldn’t.

College only made that clearer. You knew that Olyana liked strange things. Medical journals. Preserved insects. Books on anatomy. Pages of notes written in obsessive rows. She talked about becoming a nurse. It fit her. Her fascination with bodies, blood, the hidden things under skin.

Her apartment looked exactly like you’d expect. It was neat, almost painfully so. Shelves lined with odd little books. Organized boxes of keepsakes. Photographs. Notes. And on a shelf near the window sat a porcelain doll dressed as a nurse. Pristine and unsettling. It was always watching. You never asked about it.

Tonight, the two of you were sitting together on her couch, your shoulders touching. The conversation had faded into a comfortable quiet. Olyana was fidgeting. You could tell she wanted something. Her knee bounced. Her fingers twisted together. Her eyes kept darting toward you, bright and eager.

Finally, she looked up. Her voice was soft.

“Can I practice drawing blood on you?” Her big eyes locked onto yours. So innocent at first glance. But there was something else underneath.