Page 7

Hello gorgeous,

That photograph under your windshield wiper this morning was taken in June last year, and of course the first thing you noticed was the date in the corner. You stared at it for a few seconds, frowned, then finally looked at yourself and said, "God, I look awful," which made me want to bite something because you were sitting barefoot on the grass in the park, laughing so hard at something your friend had said that your head was tipped back and your hair was all over the fucking place. You weren't posing, checking your stomach, worrying about your face or trying to work out which angle made you look best. You were just happy enough to forget anyone might be looking, and somehow your first thought this morning was still to tear yourself apart.

That's why I took the picture, sweetheart. You look alive in it, properly fucking happy, and you look beautiful whether you believe me or not. I'm getting really tired of watching you find something wrong with yourself every time you see a photograph you didn't get to approve first, because there is nothing wrong with the woman in that picture. She was laughing, her hair was a mess, she had grass stuck to the back of one leg and she still looked gorgeous enough that I stood there like an idiot and took a photograph I had absolutely no right to take.

The date matters too, because my obsession started long before the first black envelope. October didn't create this problem. The letters are only when I finally stopped keeping the obsession to myself.

I first noticed you a long time ago in the bookstore while you were arguing with the guy behind the counter about a horror novel. You said the scariest monsters were the ones who could explain themselves well enough that the reader started agreeing with them before remembering what the bastard had actually done, and I remember standing there thinking you were right before following you outside without even bothering to come up with a good reason.

For the first week or so, I told myself the next few times I saw you were coincidence because apparently I was still capable of lying to myself back then. After that I stopped pretending and started making sure I was where you were. I learned your coffee stop, your Sunday walks through the park, the nights you stayed too late at work and came outside rubbing the back of your neck because ten hours at that desk always fucks with your shoulders. I learned which people made you relax, which ones made you polite in that way you get when you actually want someone to leave you alone, which jokes make you laugh even when you're trying not to, and eventually I learned about the guy in August.

You know what happened now, and no, I still don't regret it.

Your friend called while you were sitting in the car with the photograph this morning, and you watched her name flash across the screen until the phone stopped ringing. At lunch she came to the office anyway, and that argument was bad enough that for once listening in didn't feel particularly entertaining. She said the letters were changing the way you thought, you told her she had been treating you like you were too stupid to know your own mind, then she said she was scared for you and you told her you understood that but you were getting fucking tired of everyone acting like fear was the only response you were allowed to have.

Then she finally asked the question you've both been dancing around.

"Do you like them?"

You stared at her long enough that I thought you were going to dodge it again, then you said, "Maybe I fucking do."

Christ, beautiful.

I've done violent things with a steadier pulse than I had after hearing that, and that's embarrassing enough that I considered leaving it out of this letter. I actually had to walk away for a minute because apparently following you for months, breaking into your apartment and writing increasingly filthy things about you every night are all perfectly manageable, but hearing you admit you might enjoy any of it turns me into a fucking idiot.

I wanted to hear you say it again for the rest of the afternoon, preferably somewhere private where I wouldn't have to stand there pretending those words didn't feel like they belonged to me.

Your friend cried before she left, and you nearly followed her out, which killed whatever smug satisfaction I'd been getting from the argument. Don't lose her because of me, sweetheart. I mean that. I'm jealous of stupid shit, I get annoyed when strangers make you laugh too much and I hate seeing another man touch your arm even when you clearly don't give a damn, so I'm not pretending I'm suddenly generous. I just don't want you cutting someone you love out of your life because I barged into it and made everything weird. That would be fucked even by my standards.

You asked her for some space and she left angry, then after work you went home and put the June photograph beside the velvet mask.

I liked that.

Then you finally dealt with the laundry and realized I'd taken something.

Yeah, gorgeous. The black lace pair.

Those ones.

The pair you wore that night while you touched yourself with my letter lying open beside you, the same pair you were still wearing when you eventually fell asleep and then dropped into the laundry basket after you changed the following morning. I took them that following morning, and before you ask yourself whether I just grabbed the first thing I found, I didn't. There were clean pairs in your drawer, plenty of them, and I didn't give a fuck about any of those.

I wanted that pair.

I wanted the lace that had been against your skin while you were lying there reading my words and getting yourself off, because apparently my obsession has reached that point. I picked them up from the basket and stood there holding them for a long time. The lace was soft between my fingers, still slightly twisted from where you'd pulled them off before throwing them in there, and the second I touched them I was back behind those wardrobe doors watching you again. I could remember exactly how your breathing had changed, the way you'd shifted on the bed, the little sounds you tried so hard to swallow even though you thought you were alone, and knowing I was holding the underwear you had been wearing while all of that happened made what was already a fucked-up fixation considerably worse.

I brought them home and put them on my table because apparently some tiny piece of my brain still thought I was going to behave like a normal fucking person.

That lasted maybe ten minutes… probably less.

Every time I looked over and saw that black lace sitting there, all I could think about was you wearing it the night I watched you from six fucking feet away trying not to make a sound while you unknowingly drove me insane.

So I stopped pretending and picked them up again, ran the lace between my fingers and held them to my face.

Then I breathed you in.

Fuck, sweetheart.

That was either a mistake, or the best bad decision I've made all week.