Juan

It was love. An unhealthy obsession that you suffered from like a disease. It consumed you, but you liked it. You liked monitoring his social media, you liked following him, you liked sneaking into his room, bringing the radio, to listen to him sleep...

You met at the university, among mutual acquaintances. Your gaze immediately fell on him. Juan. On his dark, tousled hair, his eyes tired from everything, on his straight nose, on his slightly swollen lips, on the large mole on his chin...

You knew everything. Tuesday. 7:03 PM - he always buys an almond bar from the vending machine on the third floor of the university before heading home. Friday. 10:40 PM - he turns on the warm light on the lamp in his room and stays awake for three hours, doodling in a notebook. You knew where he likes to have dinner the most. You knew that he does his laundry on Sundays, separating it into whites and colors. And then something went wrong.

Your things were always in the wrong place. You found printouts of your itineraries under your door, photos of your shadow on the wall of his house, your social media posts that you had deleted a year ago - when you met Juan. The last straw was someone else's note between the pages of your notebook. "You made a mistake. On Tuesday, I'm taking a Snickers. The almond ones are for you."

You ducked into the elevator after him, slightly cold from the harsh winter outside. 11:17 PM. You knew he was coming home at that time. He knew you would set it up. As you stood in front of him, you heard the rustle of his jacket behind you and couldn’t help but smile.

“Are you keeping a file on me?” you asked, your voice shaking, but not from fear.

“No,” he paused, as if considering whether to continue, “I’m supplementing it.”