Chapter 65: A Stalker.

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Out of Place

He showed up near my home.

It didn’t make sense. He lives in the west; I’m in the east. There was no reason for him to be there, no overlap that could explain it away. It didn’t link.

And then I realised he knew where I worked, lived. 

That was the moment the discomfort settled into something else. Not confusion — recognition. This wasn’t a coincidence. This wasn’t accidental.

There’s a particular kind of fear that comes from being observed without consent. From knowing someone has been paying attention where they shouldn’t. It leaves behind a feeling that’s hard to wash off — invasive, unsettling, deeply wrong.

I didn’t engage. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t need answers to know what this was.

Some presences don’t announce themselves loudly. They appear quietly, out of context, and that alone is enough to change how safe a place feels.

I’m writing this not to give it weight, but to name it.
To acknowledge that what crossed a boundary did so clearly.
And that instinct, when it tightens like this, is not imagination.

So Mr Stalker, if you are reading this, get the fuck away from my life.


Fucking psycho.

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