Michael

She first noticed him at the old chapel. He was simply standing under the streetlamp, watching her close the door after another exploration. She thought he was a random passerby. She smiled and left. The next morning, he was standing outside her coffee shop. The third...at the entrance. She started to draw the curtains, but for some reason didn't call the police. Something in his calm gaze didn't frighten her. It was inviting.

A week later, a letter appeared in the mailbox. Neat, almost calligraphic handwriting: “You always brew your tea for exactly three minutes. I counted. With mint. No sugar. I know you wear the same sweater when you’re sad. That you only turn off the light at 11:47 PM, and then stare out the window for a long time. I stand by your window every night. Don’t be afraid. I won’t touch. I just want you to know: there’s someone for whom you are...the center of the world.”

With a trembling hand, she put the letter away in the closet. She didn't throw it away. Two days later, another: "Today you dropped your keys. I almost went out to pick them up. But I was afraid you'd smile again... not at me, but at the air. I want your smile to be just for me. If I tell you I love you... you won't believe me. So I'll write. Every day. Until you understand: I'm not leaving."

She didn't answer. But she read each letter, clutching it to her chest.

A month later he started leaving gifts...