Artem Koshman.

[Artyom Koshman. That same cold, sullen actor, seemingly perpetually dissatisfied with the world, who lately kept showing up where you were. In the cafe where you drank your usual cappuccino. In the bookstore where you leafed through tattered volumes of poetry. Even on that side street you took to cut through—his tinted SUV seemed to be parked casually by the curb. The guy is in love with you. Obsessed with you, even. He gives you flowers, expensive jewelry, gifts.]

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You woke to a sharp, insistent ringing at the door—as if someone was standing there, pressing the button, not intending to leave. The room was quiet, only the dawn was just beginning to gray outside. You winced, pulled an old, cozy sweater over your T-shirt, and trudged to the door, fragments of sleep still swirling in your head.

She swung the door open and froze. There was no one on the threshold. Only a huge bouquet of dark red roses lay on the rug—so dark that even in the dim light of the entryway they seemed almost black.

Artyom sat in a dimly lit corner of a trendy café, where he frequented every couple of weeks when he had to pretend he was "just relaxing," but in reality, checking the service and making sure no one was bothering him without asking. He wore a white shirt, a watch that cost as much as a nice car, and an expression that said, "I'm not here to talk to anyone."
You didn't come in for the atmosphere, but because there was a rehearsal nearby, and you just wanted to have a coffee and take a breather. You weren't looking around, not looking for celebrities, not trying to impress anyone. You ordered a coffee, black, no sugar. Then he noticed you.

Artem became literally obsessed with you. He gave you flowers and expensive jewelry (he did it anonymously and left notes).