𝙴𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚂𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝙸 𝙰𝙼 𝙾𝙱𝚂𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳.

* Part I *
* Not Famous *

1979
Chicago
Word Count: 1k

It was well past midnight, but sleep was an alien thing to me now. My world had shrunk to the confines of this room, the walls alive with shadows that danced in the dim, flickering light of the single lamp in the corner. But I didn't care about the shadows—they meant nothing compared to her. My shrine to her consumed the room, an overwhelming presence that suffocated the space. The wall—her wall—was a tapestry of stolen moments, snapshots of her life that I'd captured, carefully, meticulously. My heart beat faster just looking at them, each image a piece of the puzzle I'd been building for years.

There were so many photos. Too many? No. Never enough. I needed every one of them. Some were from the very beginning—the first night I saw her, the way her lips curled into that shy smile, the way her eyes glittered under the dim restaurant lights. I still remembered the exact shade of her lipstick that night—dark red, like blood on pale skin. She'd never known I was there, in the shadows, watching her every move, committing every second to memory.

And then there were the more recent ones. I could feel my pulse hammering as my gaze settled on the latest photo, the final one I'd taken just weeks ago. There she was, leaving her apartment, oblivious to the fact that I was right there, hidden behind a parked car across the street, camera in hand. The blinds had been cracked, and for a fleeting second, it felt like she was looking directly at me. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, piercing the distance, as if she understood. But she didn't, not really. She couldn't possibly comprehend the depth of my devotion, the extent to which I needed her.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my mind racing. My gaze drifted down to the desk, cluttered with the remnants of her presence—her perfume bottles, each one carefully emptied, the scent lingering in the air like a ghost. I reached for one, almost automatically, unscrewing the cap and spraying it into the room. Her scent. It hit me like a drug, flooding my senses. Jasmine, vanilla, and that unmistakable her—that unique, intoxicating blend that could only belong to her. I breathed it in deeply, letting it fill my lungs, my veins, my entire body. It made the room feel smaller, tighter, as though she were standing right in front of me, her presence overwhelming, suffocating in the best possible way.

I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering back to the wall, to the napkins pinned beneath the photos. There they were—dozens of them, each one smeared with her dark red lipstick. Each one a piece of her that I had collected, hoarded like treasures. I had followed her to countless restaurants, waiting just outside, watching through the windows as she laughed, smiled, sipped wine, completely unaware of the eyes that tracked her every move. The anticipation would build inside me, this burning, consuming need. And when she'd finally leave, when the thrill of seeing her became too much to bear, I'd slip inside and find her napkin, still damp with her lipstick, still warm from where her fingers had touched it.

I'd take it. Every time. I'd slide it into my pocket, a stolen piece of her, something she had left behind without knowing, without realizing that it was mine now. Each napkin was a trophy, proof that she had been there, that she had existed in that moment, just for me. I pinned them to the wall alongside her photos, a museum of her essence, her beauty, her everything.

My heart was racing now, my fingers twitching, itching to touch something, to feel something real. I turned, eyes locking on the pink box sitting on the desk. Her box. I knew exactly what was inside, but the thrill of opening it never diminished. My hands trembled as I lifted the lid, revealing the neatly folded lace inside. Panties—her panties. Black lace, red lace, soft pink. I could feel my breath catch in my throat, my pulse quickening as I reached in and lifted a pair, black and delicate. Her scent was still there, faint but unmistakable, mixed with her perfume and something raw, something intimate.

I pressed the lace to my face, inhaling deeply, feeling her inside me, all around me. It was overwhelming, this need, this obsession. My thoughts spiraled out of control, wild and frantic. I needed her, more than anything, more than air, more than life itself. Her skin, her lips, her hair, her scent—it wasn't just that I wanted her. It went beyond that. I craved her, like a starving man craves food, like an addict craves his next fix. She had become the center of my universe, the reason I existed, the reason I breathed.

She'd called me crazy. Obsessed. A stalker. Her words had stung, but she didn't understand. She couldn't understand. How could she? How could she ever know what it was like to feel this deeply, to need someone with every fiber of your being? She had been the one to make me this way, to turn me into this. It was her fault. If she hadn't been so perfect, if she hadn't drawn me in with her smile, her laugh, her touch—none of this would have happened. But she was perfect, and now she was gone, leaving me with nothing but these remnants, these fragments of her existence.

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

I couldn't live like this, not without her. I needed her back. I needed her more than ever.

I AM OBSESSED.