Stalked

Chapter 3: Malachi

You keep trying to figure me out.

I can feel it.

Every sentence you read becomes another piece of a puzzle you’re desperate to solve. Every thought, every pause, every word I choose, you’re examining them all. Searching for something hidden between the lines. Looking for an answer I haven’t given you yet.

Who is Malachi?

What does he want?

Why is he here?

Those questions make sense. I suppose anyone would ask them.

But they’re the wrong questions.

The better question would be…

Why am I interested in you?

That’s the one that matters.

And if I were in your position, I’d probably ask it too.

The truth isn’t exciting.

It wasn’t love at first sight.

It wasn’t fate.

It wasn’t destiny.

It wasn’t some grand cosmic accident written in the stars.

No.

It was curiosity.

Simple curiosity.

Funny how something so small can become something so important.

You stood out.

Not because you were louder than everyone else.

Not because you demanded attention.

Not because you desperately wanted to be seen.

You stood out because you didn’t.

You move through life quietly.

You observe more than you speak.

You listen more than most people notice.

You think before you answer.

You disappear into crowds so easily that people assume there’s nothing beneath the surface.

Most people overlook quiet people.

I don’t.

Quiet people hide entire worlds inside themselves.

Dreams.

Regrets.

Fears.

Memories.

Secrets.

Entire universes hidden behind simple smiles and casual conversations.

That’s what caught my attention.

Not what everyone else saw.

What they missed.

A pause.

You’re wondering if that sounds obsessive.

Perhaps it does.

Perhaps that’s because it is.

But obsession doesn’t happen all at once.

People think it does.

They imagine a switch flipping.

One moment everything is normal.

The next moment someone is consumed.

That’s not how it works.

Obsession grows.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Like roots beneath the ground.

Invisible until they’re everywhere.

At first, it seems harmless.

A passing thought.

A simple curiosity.

You wonder how someone’s day went.

You remember something they said.

You smile when you hear their name.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing dangerous.

And then you think about them again.

And again.

Until eventually they’re no longer a passing thought.

They’re part of your routine.

Part of your day.

Part of the spaces between moments.

You wake up and wonder what they’re doing.

You hear a song and think about whether they’d like it.

You see something funny and imagine their reaction.

You don’t even realize it’s happening.

Not at first.

Then one day, you sit alone with your thoughts and realize you’ve spent far too much time thinking about someone.

And by then…

It’s already too late.

People talk about love as though it’s beautiful.

As though it’s soft.

As though it’s gentle.

But love isn’t always gentle.

Sometimes it grows teeth.

Sometimes it learns how to wait.

Sometimes it becomes possessive.

Not because it wants to hurt.

Because it doesn’t want to lose.

Humans fear loss more than anything.

That’s what makes us dangerous.

Not hatred.

Not anger.

Fear.

Fear of losing something that matters.

Fear of becoming forgotten.

Fear of being left behind.

We’re all afraid of that.

Even me.

Especially me.

Another pause.

You know what I find amusing?

You’re reading this, and part of you is trying to decide whether I’m telling the truth.

You’re wondering how much of this is real.

How much is manipulation.

How much is performance.

Maybe all of it.

Maybe none of it.

People lie all the time.

Not just to others.

To themselves.

They convince themselves they’re happy.

They convince themselves they’re fine.

They convince themselves they don’t care.

And eventually they believe their own lies.

I’ve never understood that.

I’ve always preferred uncomfortable truths.

Even when they hurt.

Especially when they hurt.

Pain means something mattered.

Numbness means nothing does.

Most people fear pain.

I fear emptiness.

I’d rather feel too much than nothing at all.

Wouldn’t you?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps you’re wiser than me.

Perhaps you’re smarter.

Or perhaps you’re simply better at pretending.

You know, everyone wears masks.

Not the physical kind.

The other kind.

The smiles.

The jokes.

The practiced responses.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m okay.”

“Everything’s good.”

Those are masks.

Everyone has them.

Some people wear theirs so long they forget who they are underneath.

That’s sad, don’t you think?

Imagine spending so much time pretending that one day you wake up and realize you don’t remember what’s real anymore.

I wonder if that scares you.

It should.

Identity is fragile.

People think they know themselves.

Then life happens.

And suddenly they’re strangers to themselves.

Funny.

Humans spend their entire lives trying to understand each other.

But most of them don’t even understand themselves.

Maybe that’s why I’m fascinated by people.

Because everyone is a mystery.

Even when they think they aren’t.

Especially when they think they aren’t.

And you…Well.

You intrigue me.

Not because you’re perfect.

Perfection is boring.

Perfect things don’t exist.

People are beautiful because they’re flawed.

Because they make mistakes.

Because they break.

Because they heal.

Because they survive things no one else ever sees.

You carry things inside you.

I know that.

Everyone does.

Memories they don’t talk about.

Conversations they replay.

Things they wish they’d said.

Things they wish they could forget.

Invisible scars.

People don’t notice those scars.

I do.

Maybe that’s what makes me different.

Or maybe that’s what makes me dangerous.

Though I suppose understanding me might be the most dangerous thing you’ve done so far.

Because the moment you understand someone,

You start caring what happens to them.

And caring is dangerous.

Because caring means vulnerability.

Caring means fear.

Caring means pain.

And once someone matters to you,

You can never go back to who you were before.

That’s the tragedy of connection.

People change each other.

Sometimes forever.

So tell me.

As you sit there trying to understand me…

Trying to decide whether I’m a mystery…

Or merely a man…

Trying to decide whether you should keep reading…

Or turn away…

I wonder something.

I wonder if you’ll care what happens to me.

And perhaps more importantly,

I wonder what you’ll do when you realize…

I already care what happens to you.