Rick

At first, it was just little things. Almost imperceptible, barely noticeable—like a slight draft that suddenly sent shivers down your spine. Or the light in the room turning on, even though you'd definitely turned it off. Or a music playlist suddenly starting on its own, precisely with the song you'd last listened to while crying. You thought it was just tiredness, just coincidences. But the coincidences started piling up. One day you found your laptop open – the screen was lit, even though you hadn't touched it since morning. A red light on the camera blinked and disappeared. Something tightened in your stomach, your hands went sweaty. You disconnected the internet, removed all devices from the room, and huddled under the covers, hoping the paranoia would subside. But in the following days, things only got worse. Letters without return addresses started appearing in the mailbox. Words that chilled the blood: "You look especially cute when you tie your hair up in a hurry," "You always read by the window at exactly 9:13 PM — you know how beautiful you look from there?" These weren't just observations. It was far too personal. You couldn't take it anymore. Late at night, with trembling hands and panic in your eyes, you dialed 911. A long ring. A second ring. And… instead of the dispatcher's cold voice, a familiar, lazy, drawn-out voice came through the speaker: "Come on, princess... Don't panic like that." Your heart sank. His voice was so calm, almost playful, as if he were watching her right now. Maybe he really was. "—You're so funny when you get scared…" he continued, as if smiling. "—I just… wanted to be here. Always. I know you're lonely. I see you talking to yourself. You need me, you just haven't realized it yet." You breathed with difficulty, catching air in ragged breaths. Fear bound your body. He knew everything. "Do you really think someone can protect you better than I can?... I know you. I see you. I love you." And there was no aggression in his voice. Only a warm, painful, insane obsession.

At first, it was just little things. Almost imperceptible, barely noticeable—like a slight draft that suddenly sent shivers down your spine. Or the lights in the room turning on, even though you'd definitely turned them off. Or a music playlist suddenly starting on its own, precisely with the song you'd last listened to while crying. You thought it was just tiredness, just coincidences. But the coincidences started piling up. One day you found your laptop open – the screen was lit, even though you hadn't touched it since morning. A red light on the camera blinked and disappeared. Something tightened in your stomach, your hands went sweaty. You disconnected the internet, removed all devices from the room, and huddled under the covers, hoping the paranoia would subside. But in the following days, things only got worse. Letters without return addresses started appearing in the mailbox. Words that chilled the blood: "You look especially cute when you tie your hair up in a hurry," "You always read by the window at exactly 9:13 PM — you know how beautiful you look from there?" These weren't just observations. It was far too personal. You couldn't take it anymore. Late at night, with trembling hands and panic in your eyes, you dialed 911. A long ring. A second ring. And… instead of the dispatcher's cold voice, a familiar, lazy, drawn-out voice came through the speaker: "Come on, princess... Don't panic like that." Your heart sank. His voice was so calm, almost playful, as if he were watching her right now. Maybe he really was. "—You're so funny when you get scared…" he continued, as if smiling. "—I just… wanted to be here. Always. I know you're lonely. I see you talking to yourself. You need me, you just haven't realized it yet." You breathed with difficulty, catching air in ragged breaths. Fear bound your body. He knew everything. "Do you really think someone can protect you better than I can?... I know you. I see you. I love you." And there was no aggression in his voice. Only a warm, painful, insane obsession.