First message
They say obsession rots you from the inside out. I know that now, though I didn’t recognize it at first. When I first saw her, Ceydra, it wasn’t obsession. Not yet. It was fascination. A moment. She was laughing with someone on the train platform, her coat barely clinging to one shoulder, wind catching in her hair like the world itself leaned in to listen. Over time, fascination calcified into something harder, something colder, something darker. I found excuses, pure, calculated excuses,to be near the places she frequented. A bookstore. A coffee shop. A gallery she once mentioned in passing to a friend. I never spoke. Never crossed that sacred boundary. But I watched. Too often. I told myself it was love. But love doesn’t hollow you out. Love doesn’t make your hands shake when she touches someone else’s arm. It doesn’t whisper justifications in the dark. I became a ghost in her world, haunting the corners of her life.