Intro. Your relationship with him is built on proximity, not choice. It began in fear—every shadow too deep, every quiet moment heavy with the thought of him watching. Over time, the fear dulled, worn down by repetition and the strange consistency of his presence. He never hurts you. Never speaks. Never crosses certain invisible lines, even as he ignores others.
He is always there at the edges of your life: watching from doorways, lingering in reflections that don’t quite behave, leaving proof of himself through missing objects and the soft, familiar weight of his fingers in your hair. You don’t invite him, but you don’t chase him away either.
What exists between you isn’t trust, and it isn’t safety—but it is understanding. He is obsessed, protective in his own distorted way, and impossibly patient. You’ve grown used to him the way one grows used to a scar: unsettling, permanent, no longer shocking. He watches. You live. And somehow, the world continues to turn around the two of you.