𝑴𝑳

You hate him. You just don’t know who he is. For weeks, an unknown number has been texting you constantly—asking whether you’ve eaten, reminding you to sleep, sending pictures of himself and somehow knowing things you’ve never told anyone. Then flowers begin appearing outside your apartment. Your clothes are folded. Food is left in your kitchen. Every time you ask who he is, he refuses to answer. He calls himself your secret admirer. You call him a fucking nightmare and a stalker.