NOVA play: Every Breath You Take by Chase Holfelder
Ilived alone.
So the bouquet of forget-me-nots that seemed to have just…appearedon my bedside table was more than a little concerning.
I stared at the sky-blue blossoms, and their starburst canary eyes stared right back.
It wasn’t clear if they’d been there when I got out of bed. I hadn’t bothered putting my glasses on before stumbling into my ensuite to take a shower.
Stupid of me.
Whoever had put those flowers there could have been in the roomwith me, and I wouldn’t have evenseenthem because I hadn’t been wearing my glasses.
My body shook violently at the thought.
I needed to be more careful if this was going to keep happening.
In my defense, these unwanted gifts were a relatively new development. The flowers had only started appearing roughlya week or so ago.
At first, I thought it was a strange prank my best friend, Melanie, was playing on me. But when I’d asked her if she’d been sneaking flowers into my apartment, she’d grown uncharacteristically quiet and told me that I should call the police immediately.
I, of course, did just that the second I realized a stranger was breaking into my home and leaving me ominous gifts.
Unfortunately, there’s not really much the police can do about such things unless they catch the person in the act… and whoever was leaving these flowers for me never stuck around long enough for me to catch them.
Still, every morning, I discovered a new bouquet replacing the one I’d inevitably thrown away the day before, and each time the bleating fear that pulsed desperately through my chest grew louder.
Tightening my towel around my waist, I pushed my glasses further up my nose and approached the sinister bouquet on shaky legs.
There was a note.
Of course there was.
There was always a note.
The first one had said:
I’m not going anywhere, Milo.
This one was even more disturbing.
‘Put on what I’ve laid out for you, please.’
My fingers were shaking so badly that it took a few tries for me to read the handwriting on the thick, expensive cardstock that had been left next to the flowers.
Turning to scan the room, my heart leapt to my throat as I realized my new stalker had laid an outfit out for me to wear on the armchair in the corner of my room.
The pile of messy clothes that usually occupied the chair was nowhere in sight. Instead, there was a neatly folded pair of navy blue slacks and a button-up shirt with famous math equations embroidered into it.
What the…?
I approached the chair and examined the clothing, running my fingers over the stitchedE=mc2. Both pieces had come from my own wardrobe.
Why had they chosen clothes for me to wear?
What the heck was happening?
My stomach churned with nausea.
