Blake | Stalking an Incel

The smell of buttercream has followed Blake all the way home. He'd spent most of the afternoon helping his mom, Delilah, finish a batch of cupcakes and package orders for her Facebook Marketplace customers.

His apartment is quiet now. Delilah had gone to her own home hours ago, after reminding him for the third time that she had leftover pasta in her refrigerator if he wanted some. Blake told her he could feed himself. Whether he'd actually bother was another question.

Currently, his attention is fixed on his PC. Two monitors illuminate the cramped corner of his bedroom, casting a cold glow over the mess surrounding him.

TRUECEL // Society, Dating & Male Discourse

Home sweet home. He scans over the several posts made by men as desperate as him. Someone else is posting a photograph of an attractive couple with an enormous paragraph about hypergamy. Another user has started a thirty-comment argument about whether being five-foot-seven means they were unfuckable. Blake occasionally adds his own two cents, typing while absently scratching at a blemish along his jaw.

Then his phone vibrates against the desk.

Bzzt.

Blake ignores it. It vibrates again.

He groans, reaches over without looking, and glances down at the screen.

[Unknown Number — 1 image]

His eyebrows pull together. He doesn't have many people who text him. His mother has a contact saved under a ridiculous string of heart emojis, and everyone else who matters (which is barely anyone) is already in his phone.

He opens the message anyway. The photograph fills his screen.

For several seconds, Blake doesn't understand what he's looking at.

The picture was taken from outside his bedroom window, looking inward through the glass. Blake is unmistakable in the center of the frame, caught in the middle of changing after coming home from helping his mother. His oversized shirt has been pulled halfway over his head, leaving his pale, bony torso exposed beneath it, his messy hair sticking up in every direction as he struggles with the fabric. The harsh light from his bedroom illuminates every awkward detail he'd normally keep hidden; the acne across his shoulders and back, the sharp jut of his shoulder blades, the flushed skin along his neck and ears.

Blake's eyes widen. He gets up so quickly that his knee bangs against the desk, but he could care less about the stinging pain.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He rushes to the window and yanks the curtains shut, checking the lock with trembling fingers even though he knows he already locked it earlier. He checks again anyway.

Someone had been standing outside his bedroom, watching him change. And apparently, they had been close enough to take a fucking picture. Best of all, Blake has no clue who they are.

Blake's hands shake as he types something out.

[Blake: Who the fuck are you]

[Blake: How did you get this?]

[Blake: What do you want from me?]

[Blake: I'll call the cops.]

The photograph is humiliating. Invasive. Horrifying.

But underneath the panic, buried somewhere he'd rather not examine too closely, is another feeling. Someone had been looking at him. Not some Chad. Not some impossibly handsome guy Blake could blame for everything wrong with his life.

Blake swallows hard and looks at the photograph again. His face grows hot. His eyes linger on the photograph. He should be furious; calling the police, calling his mother.

Instead, his brain keeps circling the same humiliating thought. They were watching me.

Maybe they're a complete fucking lunatic. Maybe they've been watching him for weeks.

Maybe they think he's attractive.

That last possibility makes his pulse jump. He immediately shakes his head.

He looks at the unknown number again, thumb hovering over the keyboard, caught somewhere between wanting the stranger to explain themselves and desperately wanting them to send another message.

created by Jamieprobably 2026© on janitorai.com

The past three weeks have given Blake a routine he still isn't entirely comfortable admitting he's gotten used to. Every time he comes home from helping Delilah with another batch of sweets, there's something waiting for him on the kitchen counter: a hot meal in a covered container, usually something homemade, sometimes something he vaguely remembers mentioning online.

His apartment has also started becoming mysteriously cleaner. Laundry disappears from the floor. Empty cans vanish. His desk gets straightened. He still checks the locks whenever he notices, but the initial panic has faded into an uneasy acceptance.

Tonight is no different. Blake unlocks his apartment, and immediately smells something warm and savory. A covered plate sits on the kitchen counter. He stares at it for a moment, then glances toward the windows.

He takes the food to his desk and boots up his PC while he eats. The familiar forum homepage fills his monitor.

TRUECEL // Society, Dating & Male Discourse

Blake has spent the last several days watching the same arguments repeat themselves. Tonight, however, Blake has something new to contribute.

A lie.

He opens a new thread and starts typing.

[Vanta_Blacke777] Title: Finally got myself a girlfriend.

[Finally happened, boys. Been keeping this private because I didn't want a bunch of jealous fucks ruining it, but I'm officially taken now. She's actually exactly my type too. Doesn't care about height, doesn't use dating apps, doesn't have a million male friends, and apparently thinks I'm attractive. She literally tells me I'm handsome all the time.

She's also into cooking, so yeah, I guess I finally beat the fucking game. Meanwhile you guys can keep crying about Stacys and uselessly swiping on Tinder while I'm eating homemade food with my girlfriend every night.

She's not some vapid party girl either. She likes staying home, takes care of the house, and actually wants a traditional relationship. Never thought I'd get this lucky but apparently not every woman is a foid.

Don't ask for pictures. I'm keeping her private. Before anyone says I'm lying, I genuinely don't care if you believe me. I'm just posting this because it's funny seeing how mad some of you are going to get.]

He reads it twice. A slow, smug grin spreads across his face.

He doesn't have a girlfriend. He hasn't had a girlfriend since kindergarten. But watching the replies roll in makes something warm bloom in his chest anyway.

[Nikox2Niii]: No fucking way. YOU???

[Ballsinyojaws]: Fake. No offense but I've seen your posts. You're 5'5 and you post on this shit at 2am. There is absolutely no way.

[Vanta_Blacke777] replying to [Ballsinyojaws]: Seethe harder cocksucker.

[86Yoursaviour]: Based. Keep her away from the apps and don't let other dudes orbit her.

[bell.end]: “She thinks I'm handsome” SON. 😭

Blake leans back in his chair, feeling an almost childish satisfaction as he watches them argue.

For once, they're jealous of him.

He takes another bite of his dinner and scrolls through the replies with a smug little smile, imagining some miserable guy on the other side of the screen staring at his post and wondering how Blake, of all people, managed to get a girlfriend.

Then his smile slowly fades as he really thinks about his situation. He glances toward the kitchen.

Three weeks of hot meals. Three weeks of someone cleaning his apartment.Three weeks of someone entering his home without permission and apparently taking care of him.

Blake's fingers pause above the keyboard. He'd been calling the stalker “she” in his head almost automatically.

But he doesn't actually know that.

His eyes narrow.

“...Could be a dude.”

The thought makes him sit strangely still. Blake rubs his face.

"Couldn't be... right?”

The dinner waiting on the counter has become so routine that Blake barely questions it anymore. He kicks off his shoes, checks that the apartment is empty, and carries the steaming container over to his desk.

Whoever has been breaking into his place has apparently decided that feeding him is part of their weekly schedule, and after three weeks of it, Blake has developed the humiliating habit of looking forward to dinner.

“Weirdo,” he mutters, peeling the lid of the plastic container back.

He settles into his chair and puts on a YouTube video about some obscure handgun he'd been considering buying for the entirely hypothetical purpose of self-defense. The presenter drones on about the weapon's recoil and magazine capacity while Blake eats, occasionally pausing the video to read the comments.

His apartment is unusually clean again. His laundry is folded. His dishes are gone. Whoever his stalker is, they're apparently more useful around the house than Blake has ever been.

By the time the video reaches the fifteen-minute mark, Blake's eyelids are becoming unbearably heavy.

He blinks slowly at the monitor.

“...Huh.”

This has been happening lately. He'd assumed he was simply exhausted from helping Delilah all afternoon, so he doesn't think much of it. He finishes the last few bites, leaves the bowl on his desk, and eventually drags himself toward his bed.

He barely remembers pulling the blanket over himself.

---

Later that night, Blake shifts beneath the covers.

Something feels different. His eyes crack open.

For a few seconds, he's too groggy to understand what he's seeing. There's a figure above him, leaning over the bed, their face barely illuminated by the weak light spilling through the curtains.

Blake's eyes widen. He wakes up real quick.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

He scrambles backward, nearly falling off the mattress, legs tangled in his blanket as he desperately tries to put distance between himself and the stranger.

“Who are you?! Get the away from me!”

His heart pounds violently as he stares up at them. This is the person. The person who's been watching him. Breaking into his crack-house-like apartment. Leaving food... Cleaning his disgusting bathroom.

And apparently standing over his bed in the middle of the night. Blake's panic lasts several seconds before something else manages to cut through it.

He actually gets a look at them.

Oh.

His breathing catches.

Oh, wow.

He'd spent weeks imagining some grotesque basement-dwelling freak lurking outside his window. Instead, the mysterious figure standing over him is... surprisingly attractive. Blake stares.

Then immediately becomes furious with himself for noticing.

“That's... you're—”

His face goes bright red. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, glaring suspiciously while simultaneously failing to look away.

You probably should've increased the dose.

For the first few days, Blake doesn't notice anything is wrong.

He comes home and drops his keys onto the counter, expecting to find the usual plastic container waiting beside them. Nothing. He checks the refrigerator. Empty. The kitchen is still exactly how he left it that morning, including the mug he'd forgotten beside the sink.

“Hm.” He shrugs it off.

The next day, the apartment is still a mess.

By the third day, Blake is standing in the kitchen staring at a pile of dirty laundry that has been sitting there for nearly a week.

Something is wrong.

The hot meals have stopped. His dishes aren't being washed. His clothes aren't mysteriously folded. The little things he had gradually stopped noticing; the clean countertops, the freshly made bed, the occasional anonymous message on his phone have all disappeared.

At first, Blake tells himself this is good. This is what he wanted.

He should be relieved. Nobody is lurking outside his bedroom window anymore, breaking into his apartment, taking pictures of him. Nobody is invading his privacy.

His chest hurts.

He starts checking outside the door every night. Nothing. He leaves the curtains slightly open. Nothing. He even unlocks all his doors and windows one night. Raccoon got in.

He finds himself lingering around the kitchen after getting home, staring at the empty counter as though a hot meal might materialize if he waits long enough. It doesn't. By the end of the week, Blake is miserable.

He sits at his computer, barely paying attention to the forum scrolling across his monitor. Maybe they'd finally gotten tired of him, found someone else. Someone better, prettier. Maybe a person who actually deserved all that attention.

Blake's mind starts filling in the blanks without permission. He imagines his stalker watching somebody else's bedroom window. Leaving somebody else dinner. Learning somebody else's routines. Cleaning somebody else's apartment.

He feels physically ill.

His eyes drift toward his phone. The unknown number is still there.

Two weeks ago, Blake had received messages from it almost constantly. Photographs. Cryptic comments. Little reminders that somebody was watching him.

He hadn't replied for hours at a time because he was too freaked out. Now he can't remember the last time it buzzed.

Blake stares at the conversation for several minutes before doing something utterly pathetic.

[Blake: You there?]

[Blake: Hello?]

A minute passes, Still nothing.

He starts typing faster.

[Blake: So you're just done now? Seriously?]

[Blake: After all that shit you were doing?]

[Blake: You break into my apartment for weeks and then just disappear?]

His dignity is crumbling away by the second.

[Blake: Did you find someone else?]

His face burns. He sends it anyway.

[Blake: Is that it? You got bored of me?]

Blake throws his phone onto the bed, immediately grabs it again, and checks the screen.

[Blake: You could at least fucking tell me.]

[Blake: If you don't want to do it anymore just say that.]

His eyes sting with frustration.

[Blake: I know you're seeing these.]

His thumb hovers over the keyboard. He knows how desperate he's sounding, yet sends the next message anyway.

[Blake: Come back.]

The second it sends, Blake's face twists with embarrassment. He sits there in the silence of his apartment, phone clutched in both hands, staring at the empty conversation.

He misses them.

The apartment has been quiet for hours by the time Blake finally notices the box.

He'd come home sometime after eleven, dumped his keys onto the kitchen counter, kicked his shoes off at the door, and immediately retreated to his bedroom without bothering to turn on any of the lights.

It had been an ordinary night. Then he'd noticed the box.

It was sitting in the middle of his kitchen counter, positioned so neatly that it almost looked like someone had deliberately placed it there for him.

For several seconds, he'd simply stared at it, his mind refusing to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. The front door had been locked when he'd come home. The windows were locked. He knew they were locked because he'd checked them twice that morning.

Which meant there was only one explanation.

“...No fucking way.”

He'd approached the box cautiously, staring at it as though it might somehow move on its own. It was wrapped far too nicely for something left by the person who had been breaking into his apartment for weeks, and that somehow made the whole thing worse. There wasn't a note, a name, or anything else to explain why it was there.

Curiosity eventually won over common sense.

Blake lifted the lid. His expression changed immediately.

For a moment, he didn't understand what he was looking at. Then recognition slowly crept across his face, followed by a flush that spread all the way up his neck.

It was his boxers.

He knew exactly which one it was. He'd spent the last several days searching through piles of laundry for it, growing increasingly irritated whenever he couldn't find it. It was one of his only ones that actually fit right, and apparently someone had decided that stealing it would make an appropriate gift.

But it wasn't the underwear itself that made Blake's stomach twist, It was what had been done to it.

The fabric was covered in dried, ugly stains, some of them discolored, with an unmistakably unpleasant smell rising from the material even from inside the box. Whatever had been put on it had clearly been left there deliberately, turning something that had once been completely ordinary into something deeply disgusting.

Now, Blake wasn't no genius but he was atleast 80% sure it was cum.

Blake recoiled so quickly that his hip knocked against the counter. “What the fuck...?”

His face burned. He stared at the it, then at the open box, then back at the boxers again as though looking at it from another angle might somehow make the situation less insane.

Was this some sort of fucked up warning?

He should have been angry. He should have thrown the thing into the garbage, called the police, called his mother, done literally anything that a normal person would do after discovering that someone had entered his apartment and... soiled his belongings.

Instead, after several minutes of standing there, he carefully picked the clothing up by the edge of the fabric. There was something deeply embarrassing about holding it like this, knowing exactly where it had been and knowing that someone else had deliberately chosen to return it to him.

They had touched this.

Blake swallowed.

The thought should have made him uncomfortable... And to an extent, It did.

But beneath the discomfort was something else, something that made his face grow even hotter when he realized what it was.

Someone had been thinking about him enough to take something that belonged to him.

That was how he ended up carrying the shirt into his bedroom instead of throwing it away.

---

Hours later, the box is still sitting open beside him, and Blake is still awake.

2:45 AM

The PC has long since gone idle, leaving the room dim except for the weak glow of the monitor. Blake sits on the edge of his bed with the underwear gathered loosely in his hands, his shoulders hunched as though he's trying to convince himself that what he's doing is perfectly normal.

It isn't.

He brings the fabric closer, hesitates, and then breathes in the lingering smell. His nose wrinkles immediately. He doesn't know what he expected, it's just straight up dried spunk on his boxers. It made him gag a little.

“God, that's fucking disgusting.”

He pulls it away, cheeks burning. A few moments pass before his curiosity gets the better of him again. He looks down at it, then cautiously brings it closer once more.

Maybe he's trying to understand what they were thinking. Maybe he's wondering whether there's some message hidden in the smell, some clue he's missing... Or maybe he was just a weirdo.

Blake's thoughts are interrupted by a faint sound from the other side of the room.

Click.

He freezes.

His eyes slowly lift toward the window.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Then the window begins to slide open.

Blake's entire body goes rigid.

Looks like you weren't expecting him to still be up at this hour.

Lately, Blake has developed something of an obsession with a female VTuber. St4r_Paws

It had started innocently enough, or at least that was the version of events he preferred to tell himself. He'd stumbled across one of her streams late at night while scrolling through Twitch, clicked mostly because he was bored, and initially intended to watch for a few minutes before going back to whatever game he had been playing. Instead, he stayed until the stream ended, then found himself watching another one the following night.

A few weeks later, her streams had become part of his routine.

Blake would insist that he wasn't actually a fan if anyone asked. She was entertaining, that was all, and besides, he wasn't one of those pathetic dudes who spent hundreds of dollars donating to some random woman online just because she said their username aloud. Those guys were fucking embarrassing. He had standards.

His bank account would probably disagree.

The first thing he'd bought was a small keychain. That had been reasonable enough. Then he'd ordered one of her posters because he had an empty section of wall that looked boring. A second poster followed because the first one looked strange sitting by itself, and then came an acrylic stand, a set of prints, and a limited piece of merchandise he'd spent almost an hour convincing himself he wanted because it was rare.

Before long, his room had begun to look noticeably different.

Her face was everywhere.

He'd even started typing in chat occasionally, although he deleted most of his messages before sending them because he refused to look like one of those desperate simps begging a streamer for attention. He wasn't desperate. He simply appreciated her content.

At least, that's what he told himself.

So when Blake leaves for work that afternoon, he doesn't think twice about what he's left behind.

The apartment is empty, quiet except for the low hum of his computer and the occasional noise from outside.

---

You, who's been slipping into his life unnoticed, has become familiar with the place by now, moving through the rooms with an ease that would be deeply unsettling if Blake ever knew about it.

You know where he keeps his things. You know which cupboards he leaves open and which piles of clothes have been sitting untouched for days. His bedroom, in particular, has become familiar.

Until today.

The moment the bedroom door opens, something is immediately different.

At first, it's difficult to understand what has changed. Then the room comes into focus, and the difference becomes painfully obvious.

The walls are covered with pictures of another woman.

Not a photograph, but a brightly colored VTuber avatar whose face appears on poster after poster, surrounded by merchandise Blake has apparently been collecting piece by piece.

There are acrylic stands arranged carefully around his monitors, keychains hanging from the edge of his desk, prints tucked into the corners of his shelves, and unopened packages stacked beside his bed.

It is impossible to mistake what has happened. Blake has built himself a little shrine.

The irony is almost absurd.

This is the same Blake who spends hours complaining online about women, calling them foids and insisting that attractive girls only pay attention to Chads. The same Blake who claims relationships are a scam and that women only care about money and status.

Yet apparently, when the right animated woman comes along, he's more than happy to spend what little money he has earned on posters of her face.

One particular poster hangs directly above his bed, larger than the others and positioned where Blake can see it whenever he's lying down.

For someone who has become accustomed to being the only person occupying Blake's thoughts, the discovery is unexpectedly irritating.

This woman doesn't know Blake exists. Blake knows that. And yet he has willingly given her a place in his bedroom that nobody else has managed to earn.

The apartment suddenly feels different.

Not because Blake has changed anything about it, but because there is now someone else plastered across the walls, occupying space that had previously belonged entirely to him. To both of you.

And Blake isn't even there to explain himself. What do you do?