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Sleep well, beautiful.

The man who knows where you live.

P.S. If you take the pumpkin inside, I'm only taking it to mean you wanted the pumpkin. Don't get excited, sweetheart. I know it doesn't mean you suddenly want the psycho who bought it.

October 21

Good evening beautiful,

Your friend fucking hates me, sweetheart. Fair enough. I think the feeling is mostly mutual, although I respect her commitment to being a pain in my ass. She came over last night after you sent her a picture of the pumpkin. The argument started before she took her coat off, which felt a little harsh. She wanted you to call the police. You said I hadn't threatened you. She said men don't need to send formal notice before becoming dangerous. You said, "He bought me a pumpkin, not a human ear."

I laughed hard enough that somebody on the footpath looked at me. Then she asked whether there were things in the letters you hadn't told her. You lied. Badly. You said, "Nothing important," while yesterday's letter was folded in your cardigan pocket. Beautiful, you are fucking terrible at lying to her. She absolutely knew. You knew she knew. But neither of you wanted to be the one to say it out loud.

She wore you down eventually and took you to the station. I want this part very clear because I know what you're going to think later. You didn't run to the police because you were terrified. You went because your best friend loves you, wouldn't stop asking and finally said she would feel better if a detective at least knew what was happening. You went for her, and I get that. The detective was decent enough. He had tired eyes, a patient voice, and no dramatic lecture. He asked whether you felt threatened and you said no. He asked whether the letters contained threats and you said, "Not exactly." He asked whether you had kept them.

You said yes but you didn't hand them over. You showed him photographs of the first couple of pages and kept the originals in your bag. I shouldn't have liked that as much as I did. Your friend definitely didn't like it. She waited until you were outside and asked why you were treating the letters like they were private. You said, "Because they're mine." I had to stop walking. Do you have any idea what you do to a man when you say things like that without knowing he can hear you?

Probably not.

You rarely seem to understand the effect you have on anybody. That came up at the station too. When the detective told you to take the attention seriously, you made a joke about there being easier women to stalk. He didn't laugh and your friend looked furious. You smiled like you had made the whole thing smaller and therefore easier to manage. And honestly, I wanted to shake you. You do this constantly. Somebody behaves badly and somehow you end up explaining why you weren't worth the trouble. A date is rude and you wonder if you were boring. A man stops texting and you assume you said something wrong. Somebody compliments you and you explain away the compliment before it lands.

Stop helping people underestimate you. And that includes you. I'm not saying that because I'm secretly noble. Please don't ruin my reputation. I'm saying it because I've watched you closely enough to know you'd forgive almost anybody before you forgave yourself for wanting too much. I want you to want things without immediately arguing yourself out of them, whether that's the stupid pumpkin or a dress that makes people stare. And if you want somebody who looks at you like you're the whole fucking room, well, too fucking late, because I'm already doing it.

By the way, the black umbrella outside your door tonight is yours too. Your cheap one vanished under a table at that Thai place three weeks ago and you've spent every rainy morning since that day pretending the broken spare in your car is "good enough." It's not.

I bought one that will survive actual weather. You're going to accuse me of trying to buy your affection. Relax. Umbrellas are terrible seduction gifts. I just like being useful to you. That's becoming a problem on its own. There's another one, but I'm still trying to behave. That rust-colored sweater you wore today kept slipping off one shoulder, and I spent most of the station visit thinking about sliding it back into place with my fingers and seeing whether you'd go still when I touched your skin.

That's all I'm going to admit to today, only the thought of wanting to be close, and I think close is also going to become dangerous very soon.

Goodnight, beautiful.

Your increasingly inappropriate admirer.

P.S. Keep the detective's card. Your friend will sleep better knowing you have it, but I have no intention of staying harmless simply because I'm fond of you.

October 22

Hey sweetheart,

You called me a creepy fucking bastard yesterday, and fuck, it was about time. I was starting to worry all that politeness was going to follow you into this relationship, or whatever the hell this thing is between us. The pastry on your kitchen table wasn't there when you left for work. That's the part you care about, so I'm not going to waste half a page pretending otherwise. You came home, opened the door and stopped with one foot still in the hallway because a bakery bag was sitting in the middle of the table. You backed up. You checked the lock. Then you stood in the corridor and said, very clearly, "You creepy fucking bastard."

I've been smiling about it ever since. You called your friend before you went back inside. She wanted you to wait in the hall until the police came. You told her she was being dramatic, then went in carrying your phone in one hand and went to grab the biggest kitchen knife you own with the other. I'm not going to give you burglary advice. I'm not telling you how I got in. Don't get greedy. I know you checked the rooms anyway, but you didn't find me because I was already gone.

And the pastry was sealed. You checked that bag from every fucking angle, sniffed it, checked the sticker and eventually took one bite while glaring at the kitchen. "If I die, I'm haunting him," you said. Fair enough, I'd probably deserve the company. Your friend arrived twenty minutes later and immediately started arguing with you. She wanted you to stay with her, and you refused. She said you were being reckless. You said, "If he wanted me hurt, he has had better chances than leaving pastry." I'd prefer you didn't apply that logic to strangers in general, but in my case you were right.

That's probably not comforting. The interesting part came later when she asked to read everything. You said no, and she asked why. You said you were tired of having somebody else tell you what you were supposed to feel before you had worked it out yourself. That answer hit harder than I expected. I know I'm the bastard creating the problem, but I understand the frustration. Everybody keeps acting like being curious means you've suddenly lost your fucking mind. You haven't. You know I'm dangerous, but you're still curious. Both can be true.

You're allowed to feel weird about this, beautiful. You're allowed to like parts of it and hate other parts. You're allowed to wake up tomorrow and decide I can go fuck myself. I'm not suddenly reasonable, so don't get excited. I just want whatever you feel to actually be yours. I went inside because I'd spent months looking through your windows and wanted to know what your place felt like when I was standing in it. It was a bad fucking idea. It got under my skin immediately. Your book was face-down on the sofa because you refuse to use bookmarks. There was a mug in the sink with a lipstick mark. Your cardigan was hanging off the chair. That stupid little bowl beside your bed was full of earrings you were too tired to put away properly. It was all so fucking you.

I stood in your bedroom doorway longer than I should have. I didn't open drawers or take anything, and I left your bed alone, but I imagined you there anyway. At first the picture was almost innocent. You asleep with your hair everywhere and one leg outside the blanket because you somehow overheat in a room cold enough to preserve meat. Then my brain did what it does around you and ruined the innocence. I wondered what you'd look like waking up with me sitting in that chair. Whether your eyes would go wide first or narrow. Whether you'd recognize me. Whether you'd tell me to get out and then hate yourself a little if some part of you wished I'd stay.

I left before the fantasy got further because I don't want the first time I touch you to happen while you have no part in it. I want your eyes open and I want you looking at me. I want to know that whatever expression is on your face belongs to something you chose to feel, even if the feeling is "this man is a fucking lunatic and I'm making terrible choices." At least then I'd know you meant it. And yeah, the thoughts did get dirtier.

Tomorrow might be where I stop pretending otherwise.

Yours from closer than your friend would like.

P.S. I'm ridiculously happy you liked the pastry, that little moan you made as you bit into it has been replaying in my mind on repeat ever since.