He watches me every night, slipping through my living room window like a shadow, and I can feel him—his presence, his obsession, his touch.
I should be terrified. I should lock the window. But I don’t. Something in me craves the adrenaline, the forbidden thrill of his attention. I don’t know his face or his name, but I know his hands, his heat, his dangerous addiction.
Each night, he ventures closer, feeding his twisted need—and awakening something dark in me. I want to stop this, to break free from his grip, but I’m not sure I can.
His obsession might destroy me, but the deeper I fall, the more I wonder: am I running from him—or toward him?
