Both.
Me
Who are you?
I wince. Of course he’s not going to tell me.
Unknown
Your darkest nightmare.
I burst out laughing. The tension I was holding diffuses out of my body. My stalker is bad at flirting. What was that answer? Silver lines my eyes. Seconds later another text comes through.
Unknown
I’m someone who wants what’s best for you. Go to bed. You’re exhausted.
Me
You can see me?
Unknown
Always.
I look around again, then under my bed, in the corners of my bookshelf, under my favourite candle and in the spine of books.No cameras. I shake my head. He can see me. I glance towards the window of my bedroom. The blinds are open.
Unknown
You’re not ready to see me. Go to bed, Lucie. Don’t make me ask again.
My father raised me to have a mind of my own but I can’t deny what receiving his commands does to me. What would happen if he asked again? I bite my lip, heat spreading through me, making my ears warm.
Minutes later, I yawn, confirming what he already knows, what I have been ignoring in my own body for the last hour or so.
I close my computer and books, brush my teeth and get into bed.
Mindlessly, I clutch the keychain Toma gave me, working my fingers over the grooves over and over. The repetition soothes me. And before I know it, my breath evens out and sleep takes me under, a smile on my face.
****
The next few weeks pass at lightning speed. And my silent protector is getting more bold. The worst part is that I’m kind of getting used to coming back from uni to a fridge full of food, little flowers or plants on my living room table and my favourite snacks always stocked up and ready for me to binge.
And always the little notes.
That yellow dress looked good on you.
Tampons are in the first drawer of your bathroom.
That one had me blush a little. Nothing to be ashamed of, half the world population menstruates. But now, my mysterious stalker-protector knows I’m not exactly the type that takes care of herself well. Maybe that’s why this is so enticing. He takes care of me, and it doesn’t look like he wants anything from me in return. Which is refreshing. And scary.
He has my number—because of course he does. Which stalker worth his salt wouldn’t find that kind of information easily? We started texting every day, but he always jots down some words for me to find when I get home. I keep them in a neat stack by my entrance door, reading them before I leave every day and when I get back home. My stomach flutters at the simple words written with a thin ink pen. Some are quite bossy.
Don’t forget to eat tonight.
Take your meds.
Water the cactus.
