I met him at a coffee shop I frequent. I started noticing him there any time I went. Sometimes I’d catch him staring, and he’d look around all embarrassed whenever I did. I thought it was the cutest thing.
After a while, I found myself silently hoping that he’d come over and ask to sit with me. We’d been playing eye-tag for a couple of weeks, smirking and laughing at each other, but neither of us had taken the extra step of introducing ourselves.
When he finally did, I felt butterflies start flapping around in my stomach like never before. His smoldering blue eyes, that curly black hair, and his cute little freckles. I’m not afraid to admit that I was smitten.
Our relationship grew from there. We were seeing each other every weekend, catching movies, having dinner, playing some mini golf. I knew it was a honeymoon phase. I just didn’t care. He made me feel wanted, and that was just not something I was entirely used to.
He’d show up with my favorite flowers, favorite candies, always knew the right thing to say. I don’t wanna ramble. I just can’t get over how perfect I thought he was.
Things started to go a bit sideways one night at a sleepover at his house.
I had gotten up to pee late at night, and as I groggily dragged myself to the bathroom, I could’ve swore I heard the vibration of a phone coming from his sock drawer.
I was too tired at the time to really pay it any attention, but it was still fresh in my mind the next day. I asked him about it, and he got defensive enough for me to become suspicious.
He showed me all of his drawers, though, and there was no phone in sight. That kind of subsided my suspicion a bit.
A few weeks went by without issue. We never argued. He made me feel like the only girl in the world. Then we had another sleepover.
Yet again, after he was fast asleep, the vibrations of a cellphone came echoing, this time from his closet.
This time around, I was awake enough to actually investigate, but once I did, I immediately regretted it.
Hidden within an old shoebox that was buried beneath a stack of blankets, I found it. A second cellphone.
The screen was lit up with “storage full” notifications, but what caught my attention was the wallpaper.
It was me, asleep in bed.
I wasn’t even the wallpaper on his actual phone. Seeing myself like this only made my mind race more. I couldn’t help myself.
Luckily, he didn’t have a password to unlock the phone, but what he did have a password for was his photos.
I took a wild guess. That’s why I think it was fate that I made this discovery.
I put in my birthday, and the photos app unlocked.
My jaw dropped, and my heart sank.
There were hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures, and they were all of me.
Some were of me at his house. On the toilet, in the shower, sleeping in his bed. But some were from places that didn’t make sense to me.
Me at the coffee shop, reading a book. Me walking home from school. Standing in line at the grocery store. Me outside my apartment, fishing around in my purse for my keys.
More than anything, though, there were pictures of me asleep in my own apartment.
Some were taken from my window. My second-story window. Others were taken from inside the apartment.
I kept scrolling, and the more I did, the more terrified I became. The photos dated back to at least 2 years ago.
Family dinners, early morning jogs, study sessions in the library. I was getting sick to my stomach.
As I scrolled, a noise from behind me snapped me out of my trance.
The sound of my boyfriend’s bed creaking and squeaking from his shifting weight.
He called my name.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I never responded.
I heard his footsteps rush up behind me. They stopped a few inches from my back.
Instead of asking what I was doing, apologizing, or even attempting to grab his phone, he began laughing.
Cackling. Like a mad man.
And as I stood there, too paralyzed to turn around, he finally spoke again.
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”
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