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And I didn't want you to leave. I thought the letters would be enough until they weren't, then I thought finally touching you would settle something in me. It didn't.

Now I want more.

I want breakfast with you, which is possibly the most alarming thing I've admitted in any of these letters considering murder somehow felt easier. I want to sit across from you when you know exactly who I am.

So here's what happens next if you want there to be a next.

Saturday morning, go back to the coffee shop and order two pumpkin spice lattes with extra cinnamon. Sit at the corner table with both cups.

If I see the second coffee, I'll come inside. I'll sit down across from you and tell you my name, and for the first time you'll know exactly which ordinary man has been writing all this filthy shit to you.

If there's only one cup, I keep walking.

You don't owe me an actual relationship because you wanted me tonight. Halloween can stay Halloween if that's what you decide when the adrenaline wears off and you've had time to think about what the fuck you just did.

I hope you don't decide that. I desperately fucking hope there are two coffees on that table, because I don't think I'm finished with you, not even remotely.

But, apparently I'm finished pretending the letters are enough, though.

I really should sleep.

I'm still not going to, because you told your stalker to chase you and promised he could fuck you if he caught you. You insane fucking woman, of course I caught you.

Now I'm sitting here at three in the morning realizing I don't want another chase nearly as badly as I want that second coffee.

Yours.

Completely fucking yours.

P.S. I also seem to want to start a collection of your used underwear. Obviously.

October 31

Two Years Later

Hey beautiful wife,

Fuck, I like writing that. Wife. One year ago today you married your stalker, which means either I'm exceptionally persuasive or your decision-making skills remain deeply fucking questionable.

Happy anniversary, sweetheart.

Also, happy two years since you told me to chase you through a Halloween maze and promised I could fuck you if I caught you. Still one of the greatest sentences anyone has ever said to me, although ‘I do’ gave it some serious competition.

I've been thinking about those first letters today, mostly because you found the box this morning and sat on the bedroom floor reading them while laughing at how completely fucking unhinged I was.

Was.

Cute that you used the past tense, considering I knew you were reading them because I was standing outside the bedroom door watching you for ten minutes before you noticed me.

Marriage has changed plenty, but apparently that part of me survived just fine. Now when I follow you somewhere, you usually know I'm there.

Usually.

You've also developed a deeply concerning habit of stalking me back, which nobody warned me could happen. Apparently marrying a possessive lunatic unlocked something in you because the woman who once thought I was unreasonable nearly committed a felony six months ago because some woman touched my arm while laughing at something I said.

Who fucking knew? I certainly didn't, but I was fucking delighted.

Your friend was less impressed when you told her about it, although the fact that you can tell her shit like that now without her immediately searching how to make your best friend join witness protection feels like progress.