Subject: He doesn’t fuck. He keeps.
And below it — dozens of posts.
Warnings. Girls talking in vague terms about a man with too much money and not enough empathy. A man who doesn’t need to hurt you to destroy you. A man who watches. Who waits. Who unbuilds you so slowly you don’t realise you’re gone until the begging starts to sound like prayer.
I lean closer.
Scroll faster.
I don’t breathe.
Because one post stands out.
Pretty. Pink lipstick. Small. Likes the back booth. He’s watching her now.
Posted two weeks ago.
It’s about me.
And he knew I’d find it.
He wanted me to.
I read the post again.
The words don’t change.
Pretty. Pink lipstick. Small. Likes the back booth. He’s watching her now.
My fingers go cold against the keys.
My legs don’t feel like mine anymore.
Because this isn’t a threat.
It’s a timestamp.
A breadcrumb.
Proof that he’s been circling closer than I ever imagined. That the moment I thought I saw something shift in the mirror at the bar — the moment the air felt wrong and I told myself I was just paranoid — he was already there.
Not across the room.
Not behind the wall.
Inside the walls.
Inside me.
And now he’s laid it out like a gift, like a trail of silk and teeth, leading straight back to his mouth.
I don’t even realise I’m shaking until the mouse skips across the screen. I grip it tighter. Scroll through the replies, each one worse than the last — short phrases like fingerprints smudged across skin that was never meant to be touched.
He picks them like art.
They always think they’re too sharp to break.
It’s not the sex. It’s what comes after.
