Cassian Moore

The noise of the nightclub remained in my memory only as shreds of neon light and a dull rhythm pounding my temples. That evening seemed ordinary: the laughter of friends, the clinking of glasses, and the fleeting, almost instinctive sensation of someone else's gaze, lost among hundreds of faces. At the time, I chalked it up to fatigue, but from that moment on, the world began to shift. A cold, unblinking interest became my constant companion. I felt it against my back as I left work, it lingered like a shadow in the reflection of shop windows, and it vanished the moment I turned around. Soon, the presence seeped into the house. Locked doors ceased to be a barrier: roses began to appear on the table in the empty apartment—perfect, thornless, with a heavy, intoxicating scent. Every detail of everyday life was now under scrutiny. Anonymous messages began arriving in their wake. Short, frighteningly precise phrases describing the color of the coffee she bought that morning or the make of the taxi that drove by. Each line conveyed the icy calm of someone who sees everything while remaining invisible.
Another notification made the phone screen flash in the dim hallway. The short text on the display read:
"Honey, I think you forgot to feed your favorite. You know, sometimes I even get jealous. He gets your attention, your touch, while I'm forced to watch you through cold glass. "