Obsessed

by Serena Akeroyd

People didn’t give credit to stalkers, and they should. That level of dedication couldn’t be bought.

She was a woman, all woman. My woman. She just didn’t know it, and she never would either.

Did every love story begin with stalking? I hoped for the heroine’s sake that wasn’t the case, but Phoebe wasn’t a heroine and I sure as fuck wasn’t a hero.

I never imagined I’d be a stalker, and my only consolation was that I didn’t stalk randomly, just the one woman. Of course, when I phrased it like that, I sounded just as psychologically deranged as any run-of-the-mill whack job who followed Lady Gaga from concert to concert. But I wasn’t. Was I?

It was delicious to me when she responded out of fear. If anyone was scared, it was me. I was the one who was obsessed. I was the one who was terrified about being found out, and yet the object of my obsession was frightened of annoying me.

God, I wanted her to claim me, because that would make me as much hers as she was mine.