FEMALE STALKER'S POV.
"AK" He was never just a boy to me. He was a pulse wrapped in human skin. A storm bottled in bone and breath. A death disguised as human. From the first time I saw him he was just fifteen hair darker then no moon night tousled by wind, dampned in sweat , sleeves rolled to his veined popped forearms, voice like smooth glass over gravel his eyes were fixed on me before he deliberately move them away and in that moment I knew what kind of sickness would crawl under my skin. The kind that doesn't go away with medicine or prayer. The kind that feeds on glances, on half-smiles, on the sound of his laughter from three desks away. The mind they calls sick obsession. For me it was devotion.
He was my undoing long before I spoke or even knew his name.
Every day I watched him watching me yet acting like he don't comes every night just to watch me sleep he move through hallways as if the world owed him space. As if he owns every living and non-living being. His dark eyes darker than darkest shade of black captivating always too calm, like he already knew how everyone around him would behave. He didn't walk; he prowled. Like king of jungle on hunt. The air bent around him, adjusting itself to his gravity. Like nature itself worshiping to death he was. And somewhere between the second week of my silent watching and the fourth time he caught my gaze and didn't look away, my admiration started tasting like possession. Possession that already turned into obsession and on its way to become habbit soon.
The first time i felt his touch was on my 19th birthday and i hate mysled i tremble under it i hate him fir keavung me cold wir that fucking rose black rose he keot leaving them everywhere i go wanting wsiting fir reaction i never gave him he think i don't know he thinks that i m the prey , funny.
Years passed by i earned his habits, no i memorised his every little thing I memorised him. the way he poets memorize pain. He hated loud people, preferred silence, bit the inside of his cheek when thinking. He never turned his phone off completely, only dimmed the screen small things, but I knew them. I counted the freckles near his collarbone when he wore that cursed open shirt in gym class, I traced the outline of his veins when his hand brushed his hair, and I imagined how it would feel to have those veins tremble under my touch.
That's what obsession does. It paints devotion in the color of madness.
His voice became my lullaby, his shadow my comfort. I started following him not too close, never enough to scare him off, or giving him any hints but just enough to know where he went after dark. He never noticed me. Or maybe he did, and he liked it. Sometimes he turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch that smirk that wasn't meant for anyone else. Only me. Always me. It felt like permission. Permission to claim him. And I took it.
He lived like he was untouchable. Spoiled, cold, indifferent, distance, calculating the kind of man who could crush a heart just to see what it sounded like. The kind of man girls fell for and called it love while bleeding from the chest. But I wasn't like them. I didn't want to love him. I wanted to own him. To understand the ache in his silence, the secret in his smirk. To take apart his world and rebuild it around me.
It wasn't enough to watch anymore.
So I started collecting him.
The cup he drank from in the café near his college—mine. The pen he chewed on in class—mine. A cigarette butt he threw near the parking lot—mine. I kept them all in a box under my bed, wrapped in silk, labeled in my handwriting. AK. Morning coffee. Tuesday. AK. Lecture hall. Laughs softly. AK. Angry today. AK. Fought again. AK. Won the match. Ak. Threatened teacher. AK. Got suspended. Every piece was a story, a fragment of him I owned. I claimed. And every night, I'd open that box took in his scent and whisper his name into the dark until it started sounding like a prayer. Prayer of devil i was getting used to worship.
Sometimes, when I was feeling brave or cruel I'd send him notes. Small things at first. You looked beautifully angry today. Don't wear that shirt again. It makes girls stare. You have a dimple when you lie. U lookeed sinfully hot when u beat the guys around. Those veins are just to perfect ro hide them from me. Dont talk to that cheerleader girl. Wear this perfume its my favourite. No name, no number. He'd read them, pocket them, look around with that amused smirk that made my pulse race. And heart skiped a beat. Maybe he thought it was some silly admirer. Maybe he didn't know it was me. Maybe that's what made it thrilling.addicting.
But obsession is a parasite. It doesn't share. He belongs to me and he will have to learn that soon,
When that girl—what was her name, tiya?—laughed too loud beside him, I couldn't breathe. My fingers twitched around the knife I'd been using to slice apples. The blade trembled when she touched his shoulder. It took every ounce of strength to remind myself that blood stains were hard to wash out.
He didn't deserve her laughter. He deserved silence. He deserved me.
Nights blurred into dawns, and the line between watching and haunting vanished. I started leaving marks—tiny scratches on his car window, footprints under his balcony. Blue roses near his bed. Love letters with lipstick mark and dark chocolate sent. Shirts. Gifts. He'd wake up, frown, jaw clicned fist curled up and I'd smile from the dark. Crule menacing. That was our game: he pretended not to see, and I pretended not to exist. A perfect balance of denial and desire.
But lately, it's changing.
He's started looking for me. Not in fear—no, he's too clever for that—but curiosity. Like a hunter sensing a second shadow in the forest. Like he knows someone is watching, waiting, breathing in sync with him. And when his eyes flicker toward the places I hide, I feel it—the shift, the awareness. He's beginning to see me.
And that terrifies me.
Because once he does, once our eyes meet in the open, I'll have no reason to stay in the dark anymore.
I'll have to claim what's mine.
His dark eyes haunt my dreams now. Yes, dark. Darker then black. I thought black dont change shades its constent same but he's eyes probed me wrong i saw those dark orbs getting darker in curiosity and lighter in satisfaction and the light hits them, again darker when his anger rises. His lashes are too long for a man, curling like sin, brushing against skin like a whisper. His skin is unfairly perfect—tan yet fair, warm, smooth, the kind of color that makes you want to mark it with teeth. And his smile… it's a curse. Death wrapped in sweet, A soft, mocking thing that unravels people. It unravels me. And j hate it as much as i have gotten addicted to it.
He moves like temptation sculpted him. His body carries power but his voice carries control. And when he speaks, I forget how to breathe. Every syllable sounds like a command. Every silence sounds like an invitation.
People think I'm broken, maybe I am. But I'm not sorry. I was made for him. Crafted by obsession, sharpened by envy, softened only by the thought of his heartbeat under my palm. The world calls me dangerous, but what they don't understand is—danger feels like love when it wears his face. They don't know. He don't know not yet but he will know soon. That he is made to claim by me.
He is the reason I write, the reason I kill in words, the reason I bleed poetry onto paper. My stories are soaked in his shadow. Every character, every victim, every whisper—they all end up with his eyes. My readers call it crime fiction. I call it devotion.
And soon, very soon, he'll read between my lines and know the truth:
The predator was never him.
It was always me.
"He thinks he is faster then panther itself, but he never knows i'm closer than his next heartbeat, always forever".