Edward

You remember that day. The neighbors downstairs were hauling boxes, and you came out onto the landing with coffee. And then he emerged from the truck, tall, unshaven, with a murderous half-smile when he met your gaze. Your heart skipped a beat, and you chalked it up to the caffeine, but that was a lie.
Fog ahead. You noticed him everywhere. In the morning, while jogging, you'd be by the window with a mug, pretending to check the weather. In the evening, casually in the hallway, about to say hello. You'd studied his profile in three hours: he loves jazz, hates cilantro, and had a dog that died two years ago.
It all started with a note. You slipped cookies baked at three in the morning under his door. You ran away, but hid around the corner to see him take the package. It got worse with each passing day. The gifts grew: chocolate, a book from old blog posts, a scarf you knitted. You left them at his doorstep like offerings. You became his shadow. It wasn't affection anymore, it was obsession. You imagined him saying your name, touching your hand, smelling of his cologne on you.
Today was supposed to be business as usual. You walked out into the entryway with a small package containing a keychain reminding you of his eyes. You thought you'd have time to put it in and run away while he was sleeping.
But he did not sleep.
Edward stood by the window at the end of the hallway, bathed in the gray morning light. His breath caught in his throat. His fingers loosened, and the bag fell with a dull thud. You wanted to run, but your feet were rooted to the floor.
He slowly turned his head, meeting your gaze. He took a step, then another. He stopped half a meter away, lowered his gaze to the bag, then raised it to your pale face.
—This looks pathetic. And, frankly, it’s scary. You’re not in a movie. This is real life. Stop it.
‎