Stalked

Chapter 4: Blake

Malachi talks too much.

You probably noticed that already.

Everything has to mean something with him. Every sentence needs depth. Every thought needs symbolism. Layers. Metaphors. Hidden meanings wrapped inside other hidden meanings. The man can’t simply tell you he likes rain. No, he’d have to compare it to grief or loneliness or some poetic nonsense about memories washing away in storms.

Honestly?

It’s exhausting.

Me?

I prefer honesty.

Or at least something close to honesty.

So here’s the truth.

I like watching people.

Not in a creepy way.

Okay.

Maybe a little creepy.

But mostly because people are ridiculous.

Human beings are strange creatures. You spend your entire lives trying to appear normal, and somehow that effort alone makes you weird. Everyone is pretending. Everyone is trying so hard to fit into whatever shape the world expects them to be. Then they wonder why they’re unhappy.

It’s funny.

And sad.

Mostly funny.

Take you, for example.

You’re sitting there reading a book narrated by two stalkers.

Think about that for a second.

Really think about it.

Any sensible person would have thrown this book across the room by now.

A normal person would’ve decided we were insane and moved on with their day.

But not you.

You keep turning pages.

You keep reading.

See?

Ridiculous.

And I like that about you.

The curiosity.

The stubbornness.

The refusal to walk away from things that unsettle you.

Most people run from discomfort.

Not you.

You lean closer.

You always want answers.

You always want explanations.

You want to know what lives behind the curtain.

You want to know what everyone else misses.

And that’s admirable.

Dangerous.

But admirable.

Unfortunately for you, what’s behind the curtain is mostly disappointment.

And Malachi.

“That’s rude.”

“You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I heard disappointment and assumed you were talking about yourself.”

“See what I mean?” I muttered.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you continue speaking to me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I think you enjoy my company.”

“I think you’re delusional.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Silence.

See?

This is my life.

I can’t get rid of him.

He’s like mold.

Or glitter.

Once he’s around, he stays forever.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“No, I’m being generous.”

“I have excellent qualities.”

“Name one.”

“I’m thoughtful.”

“Annoying.”

“I’m intelligent.”

“Debatable.”

“I’m charming.”

“You practiced that smile in the mirror, didn’t you?”

“That’s slander.”

“That’s observation.”

He sighed dramatically.

“You wound me.”

“I aspire to.”

Anyway.

Back to you.

You know what fascinates me?

Readers.

Not books.

Readers.

There’s a difference.

Readers are interesting because they always imagine themselves as the hero.

You do it too.

Everyone does.

Even now, some part of your brain assumes this story belongs to you.

Maybe you’re imagining yourself standing in the center of everything.

Maybe you think you’re the one we’re talking to.

Maybe you think you’re special.

Relax.

I don’t mean that as an insult.

People need to feel important.

It’s normal.

Everyone wants to matter.

Everyone wants to believe they’re the center of their own story.

Because otherwise, what are they?

Background characters?

Extras?

Nobody likes the idea of being forgettable.

But what if this story doesn’t belong to you?

What if it doesn’t belong to Malachi either?

What if this story belongs to us?

What if we’re the center?

What if you’re simply the reason everything started?

Interesting thought, isn’t it?

I can practically hear the gears turning.

Questions stacking on top of questions.

You’re trying to figure out where this is going.

Trying to guess the twist.

Trying to solve us before we solve ourselves.

Good.

Keep asking questions.

Questions are healthy.

Curiosity is healthy.

Ignoring curiosity?

That’s dangerous.

People ignore things all the time.

Strange feelings.

Strange dreams.

Strange memories.

Little instincts whispering in the back of their minds.

They dismiss them.

Pretend they don’t exist.

Humans are experts at ignoring things.

Until they can’t.

Until something catches up with them.

Not that I’m speaking from experience.

Probably.

Another thing I’ve noticed about people?

Everyone thinks they know themselves.

Which is hilarious.

Because most people don’t.

Ask someone who they are, and they’ll tell you what they do.

Their job.

Their hobbies.

Their favorite color.

Their favorite music.

As though those things mean anything.

Who are you when nobody’s watching?

Who are you when you’re alone?

Who are you when you stop pretending?

That’s the real question.

And nobody likes answering it.

Because truth is uncomfortable.

Malachi likes uncomfortable truths.

I prefer uncomfortable jokes.

Same destination.

Different roads.

“You make yourself sound deeper than you are.”

“I’m offended.”

“You should be.”

“I’m choosing not to.”

“Shocking.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Of what?”

“My charisma.”

“Blake.”

“Yes?”

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

A pause.

You know, he acts annoyed, but I think he’d be lonely without me.

Don’t tell him I said that.

Actually, do.

Watching him deny it would be entertaining.

People need other people.

Even when they claim they don’t.

Especially when they claim they don’t.

Loneliness makes strange things out of people.

Makes them quieter.

Makes them louder.

Makes them kinder.

Makes them crueler.

Makes them hold on too tightly.

Makes them push everyone away.

Funny, isn’t it?

Everyone’s terrified of being abandoned.

Yet half the time they’re the ones building walls.

Humans are contradictions.

That’s why I like watching them.

Not because they’re perfect.

Because they’re disasters.

Beautiful disasters.

Complicated disasters.

Ridiculous disasters.

And maybe that’s why I like you.

Not because you’re perfect.

Not because you’re different.

But because you’re curious enough to stay.

And staying means something.

Most people leave.

Most people get scared.

Most people turn away when things become strange.

You don’t.

You’re still here.

Still reading.

Still wondering.

Still trying to pull answers from people who specialize in mysteries.

And that’s adorable.

Sorry.

Wrong word.

Interesting.

We’ll go with interesting.

Keep asking questions.

Just don’t expect us to answer all of them.

Mysteries are more fun when they stay mysteries.

Trust me.

I should know.

After all,

Some mysteries are meant to be solved.

And some?

Some mysteries smile back when you stare at them.

And once they notice you’re looking,

They start paying attention, too.