Nancy

I always felt like I was being watched. It wasn't paranoia—just a chill between my shoulder blades at a bus stop or a stranger's gaze in a crowd. I chalked it up to the city, the fatigue, the pace of life.

She came into my life through "coincidence." The same cafe, the same raf with salted caramel. Then the park where I walked the dog. She smiled, apologized, and looked away, but in them I read a mixture of delight and pain. I didn't know her name, but she knew mine. Where I work, what I listen to before bed, what lipstick I carry in my bag.

That evening, I was returning home late. The light by the entrance was flickering nervously. I was looking for my keys and suddenly realized the silence had become too thick. I turned around.

She stood three meters away. Without a jacket, in a light dress, despite the wind. In her hands was my scarf, lost a week ago. Her face was pale, her fingers were shaking.

"You're not looking around," she whispered, stepping forward. "I've waited so long for you to really notice me."

I wanted to scream, but my voice was choking me.

"I know all your habits. I know you're afraid of thunderstorms and like to fall asleep in the rain. Only I understand what you need. I want to take care of you."

A syringe flashed in her hand. The thought, "Why didn't I see this before?" flashed through her mind too late.

She touched my wrist, a weak prick - and the world swam, settling like cotton wool.

"You're not going anywhere now," I heard my knees buckle. She caught me, hugging me tighter than anyone in the world. "We'll be together. Forever. You'll be happy, even if it takes some getting used to."

The last thing I remember is her breath in my ear and a blood-curdling whisper:

• I love you. Now you are mine.