Page 106 of Letters From A Stalker

“That is absolutely not true.”

The empty room appears unconvinced. Maybe not all day, but enough of it for the thinking to qualify as borderline obsessive.

I return to the letter.

I want you to know I’m out there while you do it.

I want you looking into the dark and imagining exactly what watching you is doing to me.

If you change your mind, walk away from the window. That will be enough. I will not follow you to another room. I will not wait for you to reconsider.

The words slow something inside me. There it is again — the exit. The choice.

Then:

But if you stay...

My stomach tightens.

Then give me what you refused me last night. Come for me. And when it’s over, keep your eyes on the trees. I want to know whether being watched still feels like something being taken from you or whether tonight you can admit you chose it.

—Man in the Shadows

I finish the letter and remain sitting there while the room grows quieter around me. That final question bothers me more than the sexual parts. Not because I don’t understand what he means, because I do. The first time he watched me, I had no choice. That fact still makes my skin crawl when I allow myself to think about it too closely. I had been inside my own home believing privacy was automatic, and he had taken it without ever giving me the opportunity to say yes or no.

Last night was different. He asked. I left the lamp on, but refused to give him anything else and as far as I know, he respected that. Tonight he is asking again, only more clearly. If I go to that window after dark, there will be nothing accidental about it.

I set the letter on the coffee table. There are several hours left before the decision needs to be made. I spend approximately ten minutes pretending I haven’t already made it, then I shower. Halfway through shaving my legs, I realize what I’m doing and stare down at the razor in disgust.

“He is standing thirty fucking yards away, Julia.”

Apparently my legs still require shaving? Pathetic, but I finish anyway. Afterward, I stand in front of my closet wearing a towel and become annoyed all over again because I’m considering what to wear for a man who has already seen me in oversized sweatshirts and clothing I would never intentionally classify as seductive. Eventually, I chose soft black shorts and a loose gray T-shirt. No bra. That decision happens without much thought until I catch my reflection.

I point at myself. “Do not start.”

I have no idea what exactly I’m warning against.

Downstairs, I make dinner and manage to eat about half of it while checking the windows more often than necessary. Twilight settles gradually over the neighborhood, softening the shapes outside until streetlights begin appearing and the trees behind my property merge into one dark wall. My heart starts beating differently before the sky is completely black. I rinse my plate, wipe my hands and return to the living room. The letter is on the coffee table, exactly where I left it. I read only the instructions this time.

Come to the window.

If I change my mind, I can just walk away and he will leave.

I think about the paralegal at work, about the apology she was ready to give simply because someone had made her believe responsibility belonged to her. Then I think about last night — I made him wait because I wanted to. Nothing bad happened and he asked again. He’s waiting for my consent.

I turn on the lamp beside the couch, the warm light fills the room and then I walk toward the window. Each step feels slightly unreal, because there is no sensible version of my life where I should be doing this. I am thirty-four years old, standing inside a house I own, deliberately approaching the window because an anonymous man hiding somewhere in the woods asked me to let him watch. If Tessa knew, she would probably break into my house herself and physically remove me from the room. Still, I keep walking and stop a few feet from the glass.

My reflection meets me first. Loose shirt, bare legs, damp hair falling over my shoulders. Nothing particularly dramatic, yet I feel different from the woman who stood here searching the darkness after the first letter. Then, I felt exposed. Tonight, I feel watched because I chose to be. Compartmentalising like that makes all the difference over what I’m about to do next.

I step closer. The darkness gives me nothing.

“Are you there?”

My voice barely carries beyond the room, but no answer comes. Of course it doesn’t. The lack of one somehow makes the possibility of him more intense rather than less. I let one hand settle against my thigh and remain there for several seconds, giving myself enough time to decide whether I actually want to continue. I could still turn around. He told me exactly what to do if I changed my mind. The choice remains mine and that knowledge settles the nervous part of me so, I stay. And once I decide to stay, I stop trying to pretend I am only curious. I am aroused. The knowledge that he may be standing out there wanting me has settled low inside me from the moment I read the letter, and every second I spend in front of the window makes it harder to ignore.

My hand moves slowly. There is no need to rush because, for once, release isn’t the only point. He is watching the anticipation too — that thought sends another warm shiver through me. I imagine him somewhere between the trees, standing perfectly still because he knows I’m looking for him. Maybe his hands are tucked into his jacket pockets. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe he is fighting the same impatience he accused me of enjoying last night. That image almost makes me keep my eyes on the darkness as long as I can.

The first time I touch myself in a way that makes my breathing change, embarrassment flashes through me so quickly I almost step away. Then I remember that I came here specifically because I wanted him to see the reaction and embarrassment turns into something hotter. There is an incredible difference between being caught and being witnessed after choosing to be seen. I understand that now.