obsession

The name for him is Elorian. I invited him to dinner—simply because it was late, and Mom was calling from the kitchen. Elorian had been locking his room for a while, claiming he needed some time alone. There was a sign on the door: "Keep Out." I didn't hear, pushed the door open, and walked in.

The room was bathed in yellow lamplight. On the wall was a map of photographs and notes, connected by threads, like a detective story. In the center was my photo, marked "your photo" with a heart. Surrounding it were clippings from my old posts and photos of friends. All of this was linked to notes: "Meeting in the Park," "You Laughed," "Ticket Number." On the table were crumpled sheets of paper with dates, and in the corner was his notebook with neat notes about my habits, favorite music, and jokes.