Page 127 of Faking the Goal

Because I know.

Of course I fucking know.

I've known for a while now, somewhere underneath all the excuses I've made for it. I just haven't wanted to call it that. Creepy admirer was easier. Some asshole fucking with me was easier. Even psycho was easier, because those were just words I could throw around without having to think too hard about what they actually meant.

Stalker is different.

I've already had one of those.

I already know what that word can turn into.

And I've been scared enough without giving this thing a name that makes it feel even more real.

A groan escapes me as I drag both hands down my face.

"Not again."

I push myself off the couch so abruptly my knee bumps the coffee table.

"Seriously? Not. Again." I start pacing the length of my tiny living room. "I just barely got rid of one stalker, and now I have another one?" I throw both hands into the air. "What is this? Is there some secret waiting list I don't know about? Some monthly newsletter for emotionally unstable men that says, Congratulations! Taylor Lewis is now accepting applications for your next unhealthy obsession?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"This is such bullshit."

Kentaro watches me pace for a few seconds before standing. When I pass him again, his hands settle gently on my shoulders.

"Taylor."

I stop.

"You need to breathe."

"I am breathing."

"You're hyperventilating."

I frown at him.

"...I am?"

"Yes."

Well, that's inconvenient.

"Slow down," he says. "Breathe in."

I do.

"And out."

I exhale.

"Again."

It takes a few breaths before I realize he's right. My chest isn't working quite so hard anymore, and the dizziness creeping into my head begins to ease.

I look up at him.