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To share means to truly be known. To ignore it means this was never real. Not the way I want it to be.

Stalker: The way I felt for him was gentle but inexperienced. I was thrilled to be around him, and I enjoyed his company. When he was sad, I wanted to ease his pain. When he was happy, I wanted to bask in it with him.

That sounds like love to me.

Stalker: No, Sunshine. It’s not. Until I met you, I thought love was kind and soft. A mother’s touch you miss at night. It’s not. It’s hard, ruthless, and all-consuming. It’s the sting of a flame, and you go back for more, begging for a burn.

Stalker: When you’re sad, I want to destroy what caused you pain. When you’re afraid, I want to be your shelter and fight what would dare to haunt you. When you’re happy, I want to lock you up, away from the world, so no one can see the way your smile burns the sky. When you dance, I want to be your only audience and drink in your dedication.

Stalker: When someone touches you, I want to take those pieces that know how you feel and stake them to my walls, as trophies of the men who thought they could have you. If what I felt before was love, then what I feel for you was born from the deepest pits of Hell. It pales in comparison. It’s dark, oppressive, and it drives me fucking mad with need.

My lungs constrict as I read his texts. His passion, his intensity, strikes my heart, and I drop onto my bed, eyes blurry.

You really feel like that?

Stalker: Yes.

You don’t know me. How can you feel like this?

Stalker: Just because I do not see the rose does not mean I don’t know it by touch or scent. I know you. And soon, you’ll know me, too.

Exhaling, I wipe my cheeks, rogue tears slipping from my eyes. In my short existence on this planet, no one has shown the commitment my stalker has to me. It could be dangerous to entertain him, but another part of—the rebellious part—sinks into the darkness he offers. It’s an outlet. He promises to consume me, so nothing of who I was remains, and only the new me—the me who wants so much—jolts me with feverish glee.

How old were you when you thought you were in love?

Stalker: 15.

Did he love you?

Stalker: Maybe. I never asked. Life happened, and I couldn’t keep in contact with him.

Do you miss him?

Stalker: Why miss a figment from my past when I’m entirely addicted to you and our future?

Snorting, I shake my head. This man.

Our future?

Stalker *smiling emoji* I said you’d wear my name and ring one day, Sunshine. I’ve already got our whole life planned out.

I laugh, a true chuckle, ringing out from between my lips. God, it feels good.

Maybe one day you can tell me about it.

Stalker: Maybe.

Lying back on my bed, I keep the phone on my chest, thoughts drifting. The sun sets, and my eyes flutter, exhaustion pulling me away. Then, my phone vibrates.

Stalker: Have you ever been in love?

My thumbs hover over the screen for a moment before I respond.

I think I might be.

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VALENTINA