I carry behind my bones the shadow of a silent predator who slips through the same hallways I walk, stepping where I step, driven by unknown motives. I've tried to look into him in order to understand him, because I find it fascinating how no one else has caugh him after all this time. To me, it's like living surrounded by the blind, condemned to possess the gift of sight.
It's a daily wear that eats me away from the inside, something heavy that hides in invisibility.
He knows exactly what he's doing—that's why he wears masks to hide himself and control things like a puppeteer pulling strings from the darkness. He builds roads and bridges to get what he wants. I know this because that's exactly how he slipped into my life.
There was a bit of guilt on my part, because I was the one who opened the door. Don't blame me—he seemed like a good person at the time.
Now I'm a permanent prey, placed on a bloody and unpredictable chessboard. I can no longer escape the box; it's impossible to exile someone once you've given them your soul. You know what they say, "Once you summon the devil, you never get rid of him." I have no choice but to tell strangers about it.
This is the introduction to what could be seen as a love story—twisted and sick—manipulated by the hunter. And so begins the tale of how I met this intriguing character who has been stalking me for two long, endless years.
On an ordinary July afternoon, I skipped class to wander through the long hallways of my college. It had become a habit of mine. Though the campus was large, modern and spacious, it felt relatively cold and desolate. There was nothing, nor anyone, interesting enough around, so sketching landscapes on the basketball court with chalk stones was the most entertaining thing to do.
One of my classmates—a casual friend—saw me from afar and walked over, curious to see what I was doing. He didn't have anything better to do either, and no one else to listen to his stories. He came with a loose tongue, ready to tell me about yet another of his romantic conquests: a guy five years older than him. And so we ended up sitting on the basketball court, eating cookies under a bright and beautiful orange sky. I just laughed at every line that came out of his mouth, trying to understand how he could be so bold with boys.
In the middle of one of my many fits of laughter, he looked at me—serious and silent—fully aware of the stone he was about to throw.
"So… is there no one you're into?"Instead of freezing up, I laughed even harder and looked at him calmly."Nope. No one interesting around here," I said, popping another cookie into my mouth to ease the tension.
In response, Adrien picked up his phone and started scrolling through his Instagram followers. Meanwhile, I was trying to sketch him in the worst way possible—comically exaggerated, ridiculously him."Here," he said, pulling me out of my focus.
"His name's Steiler. He plays basketball. He's super tall."I looked at his feed, and the first thing I noticed was his lethal facecard—that kind of stunning. The ideal kind of attractive, with the most pretentious yet energetically magnetic profile I'd ever seen. I was speechless, stunned that a face like that could even exist in this miserable town.
Now Adrien was the one laughing at the scene, proud of his introduction."Well?" he asked."Well, what?" I replied, handing his phone back."Aren't you gonna follow him, babe?"I smiled and thought about it for a second."I mean… why not?"I gave him my phone so he could look him up. He found the profile, hit follow, and handed it back to me with a satisfied smirk.
That's when I noticed it—2,675 followers.And just like that, my smile vanished.
"Adrien… what's wrong with you? He has over two thousand followers."I frowned in disapproval."Ugh, it's not a big deal. If he thinks you're cute, he'll follow you back. Chill, babe. I'm sure he'll be into you."
He stood up dramatically and walked away like a diva, leaving me in the middle of my confusion. I got up and followed him."Wait, do you actually know him? Is he someone you've met?" I asked, trying to figure out who this guy really was.
"Yeah, a friend of mine went out with him once. Nothing happened though. He talked to her for two days and then ghosted her."He quickened his pace.
"Then why introduce me to him?" I asked."I don't know. Go out with him once. I just want to see that pretty face of yours smile."And with that, he kept walking.I stayed behind, confused, standing there in the middle of the courtyard—silent, without answers.
I told myself I wasn't going to play whatever game Adrien had in mind. I already knew he liked to play matchmaker, and he sucked at it.
But later that night, curiosity betrayed me. Right before going to sleep, I went back to his Instagram profile and studied it closely. His face looked oddly familiar, like I had seen him somewhere before.
Steiler Grayson, 22 years old. A natural-born athlete, national league basketball player, and part of the local volleyball league. An active member of the community—and a total player. I could tell from his carefully curated profile, made to attract. Just bait. Pure Bait.
He was born and raised in the big city but had recently moved here after his mom married some big shot local guy. Now, he had three step-siblings—basically the worst of the worst in this town.
Out of his two thousand-something followers, 95% were girls. And not just any girls—absolutely stunning gorgeous ones, happily commenting on each and every one of his posts. The comment section was a battlefield for attention, full of drama and pure validation. A breeding ground for a narcissist in the making. That's when I knew exactly what kind of person he was. But I didn't care.
While scrolling through the list of accounts he followed, out of nowhere I got the notification:"@stail_z started following you."
I immediately dropped my phone and screamed in shock. I dove under the covers and froze, eyes shut tight. A chill ran down my spine—it felt like a bad omen.
The feeling didn't go away the next morning. In class, I sat there, spiraling about what to do. This already felt like too much—more than I'd ever expected.
Adrien walked in late, so he slipped into the seat next to me. I showed him the notification on my phone, and his eyes lit up as he let out a small squeal. A few people turned to stare at us with annoyed glances.
"Now message him! I'm telling you, he'll answer," he insisted, clearly eager to see how far this could go. I gave him a sarcastic smile and silently shook my head. He gently grabbed my arm."Come on, Madz. Just try. You'll see—he will reply." I pulled my arm away and sighed. "No. I don't think it's worth it."
But for the rest of the afternoon, it was the only thing on my mind. I couldn't believe he had actually followed me back. That was a historical moment for me. And no, I'm not exaggerating—the guy was ridiculously attractive back then. The level of obsession that followed him wasn't made up.
That night, I sat down to draw on my computer. The music playing only amplified everything I was feeling. If he had followed me back, maybe—just maybe—he would reply.
I took a deep breath, searched his name, opened the chat, and for the first time, gathered all the courage I had to send a simple:
"Hey :)."
I instantly left the chat and shoved my phone into my desk drawer.Then picked up my stylus and went back to drawing—secretly hoping for that little notification sound.
I only gave an hour of my life to that painting, and promised myself not to overthink the whole thing.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then thirty. Then forty.No reply.
Anxiety was eating away at me with every minute that passed, and now my emotional stability depended entirely on a single notification.
I truly hoped he would reply before midnight. But that never happened.
So, I found myself facing the harsh wall of reality: he wasn't going to answer. With a mix of frustration and resignation, I turned off my phone and went to sleep. I had accepted the silence as final.
The next morning, I got up like usual to get some water and walked to the kitchen. The warm morning silence was suddenly interrupted by the soft chime of a notification. Like a deer sensing movement, I turned toward the sound. Could it be...?
I ran back to my room, grabbed my phone, barely able to see the screen through the blur of anticipation—not even hoping it was him. Just checking.
"Hey!"
I stared at it, stunned. I couldn't believe it.
I was frozen, completely unsure how to respond. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the message again. I stayed there for a moment in total silence before slowly typing back—carefully, nervously, like I couldn't afford to mess it up.
On the inside, I was screaming.
"What's up?""All good, just chillin."
I didn't know what else to say, so I sent what anyone else would in that situation:
"Nice!"
Then came silence. I thought I had ruined it—ended the conversation before it had even started.
But then...
"Yeah. Where are you from?"
I smiled in relief and replied.
It was just a few minutes of conversation—an introduction to each other's worlds, where even the most mundane details seemed magical. Of course it was the limerence stage, where everything feels thrilling and inflated. Illusions grow like foam.
It was all so surface-level, fast and fleeting. I don't even remember what we talked about. All I remember is that three days later, he stopped replying.
"Well, that was obvious." I told myself.
Just like he showed up, he vanished. And I was left with this hollow feeling, wondering why he ghosted me.
I thought maybe he liked me, that maybe—just maybe—there was a chance he found me attractive.
After days without a response, I decided to post a drawing on my Instagram story. I checked every two seconds, hoping he'd see it—it was my way of testing if there was still any interest. Everything I did was for him.
My anxiety kept growing, and I chewed my nails down with the force of my teeth. I checked one last time—he'd seen the story at hour 23, just before it vanished. I stared at the screen for a while.That was the moment I realized I couldn't live like this. It wasn't what I had hoped for. So I removed him from my followers. I unfollowed him.
The months that followed were quiet. Peaceful. There wasn't a soul in the hallways, and I was free to lie on the grass in the afternoons, doing nothing but sleep. Those were good days. A full life.
Still, I had the audacity to paint him—because it lingered. I needed to channel it somehow, and art was my way. On a red background, I painted half of his face, consumed by flames. Beneath it, a lake of dark water, with scattered paper cutouts in collage. On the bridge above the water stood the figure of an ancient woman, and beside her, a red shadow fading away, as if it didn't want to leave her, but could only exist as an undefined presence.
Sometimes I think that behind the scenes there was always a craving for drama, for excitement.My life was boring enough to get myself into trouble I'd regret when I turned thirty.I was ready to make mistakes, but I didn't measure the consequences of my actions.