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October 18

Hello beautiful,

I nearly said hello to you this morning. Properly, I mean. Like a normal man who sees a woman outside a coffee shop, thinks she is gorgeous and decides to risk embarrassing himself before nine in the morning. Then you burned your tongue on that pumpkin spice latte and whispered, "Fuck you," at the lid like the cup had done it on purpose, and I remembered that normal has never been the part of you I like best. You were standing under the striped awning with your phone in one hand and the coffee in the other while the wind kept throwing your hair across your mouth. You fought with it for a while, lost, shoved half of it into your coat collar and crossed the road to stare through the homewares window at that black velvet pumpkin again.

You've looked at that stupid thing four times this month. You want it. You also keep deciding it's too expensive, too pointless, too indulgent, like buying one stupid thing just because it makes you happy is somehow too much to ask. That fucking annoys me, sweetheart. And you do that with way more than pumpkins, by the way. Somebody compliments your dress and you tell them it was on sale. Somebody says you did a good job and you immediately explain which part could have been better. You make yourself smaller in tiny, polite ways all day and seem to think nobody notices.

I notice. That's probably the first thing you should know about me. The second is that today wasn't the first time I saw you. I could have lied and told you I noticed you this morning, got struck by some ridiculous bolt of courage and wrote a letter before lunch. It would sound sweeter. It would also be bullshit, and if I'm going to become a terrible decision in your life, I'd rather start with the truth. I've been noticing you for a long time. I know you love October because you make it fucking obvious, sweetheart. The little Halloween earrings come out before the month has properly started, there are tiny pumpkins scattered across your desk before anyone else has bothered decorating, and you somehow find a reason to wander through every Halloween aisle you pass even when you went into the shop for something completely different. You slow down for windows full of fake cobwebs and plastic skeletons, you get stupidly excited when somebody puts up decent decorations, and you already had three different candles that smelled like pumpkin before October even hit double digits. You love this shit. Properly love it. I think that might be one of my favorite things about you.

But also, I know you put your trolley away in the rain. I know you reread the last page of a book when the ending hurts. I know you smile at every dog tied outside a shop, even the ugly little ones that look like they'd bite God if they got the chance. None of that is useful, but I noticed because it's you. Creepy? Yeah, probably. Better you know that early.

There are bigger things I've noticed too, but you don't get all of me on the first night. You'd stop reading, your friend would stage an intervention and I'd have wasted very good stationery. For now I'll admit one more thing that has become a genuine problem for me. Your mouth. You have a very pretty mouth when you say fuck. It's even prettier when you're trying not to laugh and press your lips together like that's going to hide it. I've wondered what it would feel like to make you laugh while I was close enough to feel it against my own mouth. That's all you get tonight.

See, that's restraint. I really deserve a gold star. Keep the letter or throw it away. Tell your friend or don't. Spend tomorrow studying every man who looks at you for half a second if you feel like it. I'm not telling you which face is mine yet. I like having one secret you don't know.

Your admirer.

P.S. If you throw this away, at least tear it up properly. I spent a stupid amount of time trying to decide if "Hello beautiful" sounded sweet or creepy as fuck. I don't need some stranger pulling my first letter to you out of a bin and reading it.

October 19

Hey you,

You kept it. Fuck, that made me happier than I had any right to be, and I'm not going to insult either of us by pretending I handled it with dignity. You read yesterday's letter in your car before you started the engine. Halfway through, you looked into the rearview mirror. Then the side mirror. Then you glanced over your shoulder at the row behind you and frowned at a man loading groceries because he happened to look in your direction at the wrong time. Poor bastard. After all that, you folded my letter carefully and slid it into the inside pocket of your handbag.

You did it carefully too, beautiful. You could have crumpled it. You could have shoved it under the passenger seat with old receipts, but instead you smoothed the crease first and handled it gently. I've been unbearable ever since. This morning you checked the windshield before you unlocked the car. There was no envelope there. I wanted to see whether you'd look when I hadn't given you a reason to expect another one, and you did. You also looked disappointed for about half a second, which was absolutely delicious.

Don't glare at the page. I'm allowed to enjoy tiny victories, sweetheart. You told your friend over lunch. You called me "some Halloween weirdo," which was rude but fair. She called the letter creepy. You said, "It wasn't that bad," then immediately looked annoyed with yourself for defending a man you can't identify. That was my favorite part. She asked what I knew about you. You mentioned the coffee and the Halloween decorations. You didn't tell her I've been watching for months, and you definitely didn't tell her about my unfortunate interest in your mouth.

Why did you keep that part to yourself? Embarrassment is the obvious answer, but I prefer the less sensible one where you wanted one piece of the letter to stay private. Let me have my delusions; they're harmless enough for now. You spent more time looking at the people around you today. That was interesting. You watched men instead of automatically assuming they weren't watching you, and every time somebody's eyes landed on you, you seemed surprised. I actually hate that. The looking doesn't bother me; the surprise certainly does.

You really don't fucking understand how often people notice you, do you? I've watched men turn around after you passed and women look at your coat or your hair with that quick little flash of appreciation people make when they see something lovely. You miss most of it because you're busy checking whether your bag is zipped or wondering if you forgot to answer an email. Then when you do notice somebody looking, I know you assume there must be another reason. There usually isn't. You're beautiful. I know you're already rolling your eyes because the second somebody calls you beautiful, you start looking for a way to argue with them, but I'm not asking you to agree with me tonight.

I have time later for that.

You looked directly at me today, by the way. That's all I'm telling you. There was no thunder, no instinct and certainly didn't seem like there was a useful little horror-movie shiver down your spine. Your eyes passed over my face and moved on because I looked like somebody who belonged in the ordinary world around you. I expected to hate that. Instead it felt strangely intimate, being close enough to hear you mutter at your phone while you had no idea the man you were looking for was already there.

Can you believe it? One of those ordinary men you saw today was me. Enjoy ruining your own week with that information. I'll give you one more thing before I go. Yesterday I told you I liked your mouth. Today I caught myself wondering how your face would change if I said that while standing right in front of you instead of hiding behind paper. Would you blush? Would you tell me to fuck off? I'm hoping for both, if I'm honest. Goodnight, beautiful.

Still your admirer.

P.S. Your friend is going to start using the word stalker very soon. Try not to look guilty when she asks whether you kept the letters. You're terrible at looking completely innocent.

October 20

Hello again gorgeous,

All right, before you start, yes, I bought the fucking pumpkin. You can stop staring at the box now. I watched you spend twenty-three minutes in the Halloween shop after work and stand there talking yourself in and out of every damn thing you picked up. The plastic skeleton went into the basket, came out again, then went back when its jaw fell open and made you laugh. You let yourself keep the orange lights without putting them back twice. The fake cobwebs nearly lost because you remembered how much you swore at them last year. Then you reached the velvet pumpkin.

You touched it, checked the tag even though you already knew the price, and put it back again. I swear to God, sweetheart, I nearly walked over and bought the damn thing in front of you. You wanted the stupid thing, it made you smile and you could afford it. Somehow your brain still turned that into a reason you shouldn't have it, and I've developed enough opinions about the way you deny yourself harmless things that buying a decorative pumpkin started to feel personal. So I got it for you, and don't make this romantic because I'm mostly irritated with you.

Your friend went shopping with you and asked whether another letter had come, and you said yes. Then she asked whether you were scared. You said, "No. Just curious." I nearly walked into a display of plastic bats. Curious. I've been hearing that word in my head all afternoon like a fucking idiot. You looked embarrassed the second you said it, which I get. Telling your best friend you're curious about the man stalking you is going to earn you a look. She gave you one. You told her to shut up before she even finished opening her mouth. Don't get me wrong, I like her, but I also resent the hell out of her. You've started making a list and guessing who I am too. You went through the guy you have met including one from the bookstore, half the men at work and some delivery driver whose name you couldn't even remember. You're looking for somebody who stands out enough to feel dangerous. That's why you keep missing me. That's one of the reasons you're getting nowhere.

I watched you put those orange lights up in your apartment last night. You fought with the section above the bookshelf until the tape stuck to your hair, you swore so loudly I could almost make out the words through the glass and finally stepped back with your hands on your hips looking ridiculously pleased with yourself. You looked properly happy, without the polite smile or the little shrug you use when you are trying to downplay yourself, just standing in a room you had made ridiculous for October because you wanted to.

That's you when you forget to worry about how everybody else sees you, sweetheart, and I fucking like that. You spend a stupid amount of energy trying to be easy for everybody, whether you're at work or with somebody you care about. You apologize when somebody bumps into you. You say, "It's fine," when it clearly isn't. Then you go home and argue with string lights like they owe you. I prefer you at home. You'll probably close the curtains moving forward after reading this. That's fair enough. I've earned that.

If it makes you feel better, I didn't go inside your apartment. The pumpkin and this letter are the only things I left. You can check the lock as many times as you need to. Keep the pumpkin or throw it away. I want you to keep it because I want one ridiculous thing in that room to exist because you want it and don't talk yourself out of it. I probably shouldn't care that much about a stupid pumpkin. I do, though, and that fucking annoys me too.