Mark

Mark had been watching you for weeks: he knew when you left the house, what coffee you ordered at the coffee shop, what books you leafed through at the counter. For him, you were a perfect picture—not a real one, but one he'd imagined. He'd leave little "tokens of affection" at your door: a pressed flower, an old postcard, a keychain. You felt his gaze, flinched at the slightest rustle, but couldn't figure out where the anxiety was coming from.
One day, you couldn't take it anymore and set up an ambush at the entrance to the building. Mark was caught: confused, with another gift in his hand, he looked not scary, but pitiful. You didn't scream or call the police—you simply looked him in the eye and quietly asked, "Why?"
This simple question pierced the armor of his fantasies. For the first time, he saw not his ideal, but a real girl—tired, frightened, but not broken. And suddenly he realized how much he had messed everything up.
From that evening on, everything changed. Mark stopped following you. Instead, he started leaving apology notes by the mailbox, not strange gifts. And then he even came to your house—not hiding, not peeking, but simply to tell you the truth: that he was confused, that he needed help, and that he would never hurt you again.