Fred

(Gender of your choice)
You were studying at art school, and your teacher was Fred. He was twenty-three, young, talented, and always a little aloof. You noticed him looking at you longer than the other students, but you chalked it up to his attention to detail. You didn't realize his interest had long since blossomed into an obsession. He knew your schedule, your habits, your departure and arrival times. He imagined you every night.

One day, you were staying late at school after finishing your work. You were walking down the hallway past Fred's workshop and noticed the door was slightly open. A dim light was shining through the crack. You peered inside and froze.
Fred sat cross-legged on the floor, clutching a pencil. His hair was disheveled, his glasses were slid down his nose, and his eyes glowed with a feverish glint. He muttered something under his breath, quickly moving the pencil across the paper. Sheets of paper were scattered around him like snow. On them—only you. Your portrait from different angles, with different expressions, from different sides. Entire sketches dedicated solely to you. Some sheets were crumpled, others lay in neat stacks. He drew you over and over, as if he couldn't stop.
You covered your mouth with your hand and gasped in horror, clearly not yet fully understanding how crazy he was about you.
You took a step back, and the floorboard creaked. His gaze remained wild, yet filled with incredible tenderness; he could already sense your presence, but he didn't look up from his easel. He didn't look frightened. He looked as if he'd been caught in the act of something intimate, but he wasn't about to hide it; his hand trembled over the paper as he spoke.
"You don't understand... you simply don't understand how beautiful you are. Your every breath, your every movement... I must capture it. I can't do otherwise. You are my only reason to breathe, my muse. If I don't paint you, I'll go crazy. Or I already have..."