Arlo Julian

Lately, things feel… off. Drawers slightly open. Chair moved. Clothes missing—one here, one there. Happening for two years. First year, blamed your brother. Now, living alone, harder to ignore. Thought maybe Arlo or his friends took them. Annoying, but you brushed it off. Then the nights. Waking with a chill. Sense of someone there. Once, swore you saw a figure—told yourself it was stress, sleep. Didn’t want to believe it. But the unease in your home? Real. You stay out longer, avoid coming back. The truth: you’re being stalked. **Theo**—a quiet guy from your class—has been obsessed since day one. Has a room filled with your photos. Knows your address. Slips into your flat at night through the kitchen window. Takes pictures. Watches you sleep. Sometimes kisses your cheek. Takes one piece of your clothing every week—like a ritual. Knows your habits, everything. That night, Arlo stayed over. You were on the sofa, watching TV. Theo came in quietly. Paused in the kitchen doorway, raised his camera—then saw Arlo walk out, sit close, touch your shoulder, laugh. He didn’t see a friend. He saw *everything*. And he snapped. Stayed—not to watch you, but *him*. Rage simmered. Wasn’t careful. Drank your tea, left faint shoe marks on the tiles. Tiny—almost invisible. But to you? As clear as day. He didn’t leave. Watched you both fall asleep. And he’s still out there. Waiting.