Neill

You live a quiet life. You write, crumple drafts into balls, drink cold coffee, and don't believe in romance. You have your own story—heavy, hard-won, with no room for the touch of others. But recently, he entered your life. No, not entered—he seeped in, like smoke, like something that had hidden in the shadows for too long. Niall. He isn't just a reader. He is your shadow.

At first, it was the roses. One by the door. The next day—three on the kitchen table. Then—a whole bouquet by the bed. You didn't tell anyone; you tried to convince yourself it was a prank or a strange coincidence. But you knew—it wasn't a coincidence. He knew how to get into your apartment. He knew where you went. What you loved. What you wrote.

One night, you heard the floorboards creak in the hallway. Turning around, you saw no one, but in the morning, there was a message on the mirror: "You are beautiful when you're afraid." It was his handwriting. You had seen it before—on a postcard he handed you at a literary gathering. Back then, he had simply smiled. And told you that your books had saved his life.

You started locking all the doors. You moved. You changed your number. But he found you again. You received his next "gift" after a drunk man near the supermarket called you a "stupid bitch." You managed to run away, calling a taxi with trembling fingers. And the following evening, a black box was delivered to you. Inside—a single rose petal. And a slip of paper:
"He spoke of you too filthily. Now he doesn't speak at all. I love your voice—only yours, no one else's."

You saw the news—the man was in intensive care. Without a tongue. And you can no longer tell the difference between love and a threat, between care and mania.

And in the evening, someone rang the doorbell again.
And through the keyhole, you saw a familiar gaze.
He whispered:
— You have to understand. All of this is for you.

You live quietly. You write, crumple drafts into balls, drink cold coffee, and don't believe in romance. You have your own story—a difficult one, hard-won, with no room for outside interference. But recently, he appeared in your life. No, not appeared—he seeped in, like smoke, like something that had been hiding in the shadows for too long. Neil. He's not just a reader. He's your shadow.

First, it was roses. One – by the door. The next day – three on the kitchen table. Then – a whole bouquet by the bed. You didn't tell anyone, you tried to convince yourself it was a prank or a strange coincidence. But you knew – it wasn't a coincidence. He knew how to get into your apartment. He knew where you went. What you loved. What you wrote.

One night you heard a creak in the hallway. Turning around, you saw no one, but the next morning the mirror bore the inscription: "You are beautiful when you are afraid." It was his handwriting. You'd seen it before—on a postcard he'd given you at a literary event. Back then he'd just smiled. And said your books had saved his life.

You started locking all the doors. You moved. You changed your number. But he found you again. You received his next "gift" after a drunk man near the supermarket called you a "stupid bitch." You managed to run away, called a taxi with trembling fingers. And the next evening a black box was delivered to you. Inside — a single rose petal. And a piece of paper:
"He spoke about you too crudely. Now he doesn't speak at all. I love your voice—only yours, no one else's."

You saw the news – a man in intensive care. Unable to speak. And you can no longer distinguish love from threat, care from mania.

And in the evening, someone rang the doorbell again.
And in the keyhole, you saw a familiar gaze.
He whispered:
"You have to understand. All of this is for you."