Book II Of the 'Not Vanilla' Imagine Series
𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
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1987 Detroit, MI Word Count: 1.6k
Her.
She consumes me. All I wanted was Her. All I ever needed, my every breath, every thought—was Her. Her scent. Her smile. The way she'd tuck her hair behind her ear like she had no idea how beautiful she was. She was everywhere in my mind, my body aching for her like she was the air I breathed.
I couldn't escape it. I didn't want to escape it.
I watched her, day and night. Always. Every moment that passed without her in my sight was pure agony, a torture no one else could understand. But I didn't care. No one else mattered. She was the only thing in my world. From the shadows, I traced her every move, memorized the rhythm of her footsteps as she walked home from work, her hips swaying in that maddening way. I could hear her heels clicking on the sidewalk long after she'd gone inside.
I watched her on the bus, packed in with the faceless crowd, my heart thundering in my chest when she sat just close enough for me to smell her perfume. God, it was intoxicating. My fingers would twitch with the urge to reach out, to touch her, to let her know I was there, watching, protecting her from all the pathetic, unworthy people around her. I was always there, keeping her safe, even when she didn't know it.
And from my window. Oh, how perfect it was. Her apartment, so conveniently placed right across from mine, two floors up. She never knew. Or maybe she did. Maybe she liked it. Liked knowing I was there, watching her silhouette move through those thin curtains. She didn't close them tightly. No. She let me see. She let me have her in those stolen glimpses.
But she left me. She left me when she saw what I'd done. She wasn't supposed to see it like that. Not like that. She peeled back the wallpaper in my bedroom—our bedroom—and revealed everything. The portraits of her, drawn in obsessive, painstaking detail. Every line of her face, every curve of her body. Hundreds of them, covering every inch of wall, all of them gazing back at her like a mirror, reminding her how much I loved her. She ran. She fled from me. But she didn't understand. It wasn't just art. It was a monument to her. My devotion.
She never saw the closet. She would've run faster if she had. Inside, I kept more than just pictures. I had pieces of her. Real pieces. Her panties, lacy and soft, still warm with her body when I took them from her laundry. I wore them sometimes, pressed them to my face when I missed her the most. Her bras, cradling the scent of her skin, the scent that drove me wild. Her perfume bottles, each one a treasure that I sprayed on my sheets and pillows so I could pretend she was there, lying next to me.
