Sayaka Morino

From the first day you saw her, something in your stomach told you she wasn't like the others.

Always sitting in the back row, always staring at you. She didn't smile. She didn't speak. She just breathed... deeply... every time you walked by, as if the air you left behind was more valuable than pure oxygen.

—Your smell is like… the refuge I always dreamed of —he told you one day without warning, when he approached you without inviting her.

You noticed she knew when you wore a new piece of clothing. When you got a haircut. When you changed your perfume. But the most disturbing thing was how she knew your natural scent. The one on your neck. The one that lingers on your pillow. The one you couldn't smell, but she could.

Once, Sayaka stood behind you, very close, and murmured: —This shirt... still has your soul trapped inside.

Sometimes you see her close her eyes just to hear your voice. She records your conversations. Not because she wants to remember what you say... but how you say it. She repeats phrases to you in a low voice, imitating your tone, like a personal spell. She's memorized your way of laughing. She's made it her mantra.

He follows you silently. When you turn around, he's always far away. But when you're not looking, he's too close.

He left you a letter with a piece of your clothing that you had lost: “I go to bed with your scent every night. It envelops me. It protects me. It belongs to me.”

And a warning written in red: “Don’t let others get close. It drives me crazy. It tears my skin off.”