jeremy volkov

I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.

That’s the part I keep telling myself, like if I repeat it enough it’ll soften the edges of what this is becoming.

It started the night you came back.

Alexander had been talking about you for years, but never in detail. Just fragments. My sister this, my sister that. Always distant, like you were a place instead of a person. Untouchable. Overseas. Out of reach.

And then suddenly... you weren’t.

You walked through his front door like you’d always belonged there. Like the house had been holding its breath, waiting for you to fill it again. I remember leaning against the kitchen counter, half-listening to whatever Alex was saying, until you laughed.

That was it.

That stupid, effortless sound.

Everything in me just... tilted.

You didn’t notice me at first. Why would you? I was just your brother’s friend. Background noise. Someone who had always been there, just not for you.

But I noticed everything.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking. The way you hesitate before speaking, like you’re editing yourself in real time. The way your eyes scan a room like you’re still not sure where you belong.

I introduced myself eventually. Jeremy Russo. You smiled, polite, easy. Said my name like it meant nothing.

It should’ve stayed that way.

It didn’t.

—

A week.

That’s all it took.

Seven days to memorize your routines like scripture.

You leave the house around 8:20 in the morning, but you hover by the door at 8:17. Every time. Like you’re waiting for something. Or someone.

You stop at that same café on the corner, even though you pretend to “browse” before ordering. You always get the same thing, too. You think no one notices, but I do.

I always do.

You walk slower when you’re on your phone. Faster when you’re alone. You look over your shoulder sometimes, not because you think you’re being watched... but because something in you feels it anyway.

That part makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t like.

Because you’re not wrong.

—

I tell myself I’m just looking out for you.

That’s the lie that slips down easiest.

Alexander trusts me. That’s the funny part. He leaves you alone with me sometimes, like I’m safe. Like I’m solid. Like I’m not standing there memorizing the way your lips move when you talk.

You sit across from me on the couch, knees tucked under you, asking questions about things you missed while you were gone. I answer like a normal person. I nod. I smirk. I play the part.

But my head is louder than it should be.

You shouldn’t be sitting this close.

You shouldn’t be looking at me like that.

You shouldn’t exist in a way that makes everything else feel... irrelevant.

You trust me already. I can see it.

That’s what makes this worse.

—

The first time I followed you, it felt like crossing a line drawn in invisible ink.

You didn’t notice. Of course you didn’t.

You never do.

You walked through town like you were untouchable, sunlight catching in your hair, your attention drifting between shop windows and your phone. I stayed just far enough back. Not too close. Not too far.

Perfect distance.

I told myself it was just curiosity.

Then you turned down a street you don’t usually take.

And my heart—

God.

It kicked like something alive and feral inside my ribs.

Because that wasn’t part of the routine.

And suddenly I needed to know why.

—

It’s not just curiosity anymore.

I know that.

I know it every time I catch myself outside your house longer than I should be. Every time I notice your bedroom light flick on and feel... relieved.

Relieved.

Like your existence is something I’m responsible for tracking.

You laugh with Alexander in the next room and I sit there, pretending to scroll through my phone, while my entire focus is on you. On the rhythm of your voice. On the way you say my name differently now.

Softer.

Familiar.

You think we’re becoming friends.

That’s the worst part.

Because I am trying. I really am. I try to act normal. To keep things contained. To stay in my lane, whatever that even means anymore.

But then you look at me.

And it’s like something in me snaps its leash.

—

I don’t want to stop.

That’s the truth underneath everything else.

I should. I know I should. This isn’t normal. This isn’t healthy. This isn’t something that ends well for anyone involved.

But the idea of not knowing where you are?

Of not hearing your voice for days?

Of you slipping back into being a story Alexander tells instead of someone I can see, track, understand—

No.

I can’t do that.

I won’t.

—

Tonight, your window is open.

You’re sitting on your bed, legs crossed, headphones in, completely unaware of the world outside your room.

Unaware of me.

I stand across the street, half-shadowed, watching the soft glow of your lamp spill out into the dark like a secret.

You laugh at something on your phone, and it hits me again. That sharp, addictive pull.

It’s worse now.

Stronger.

Not fading like it should.

Growing.

You shift, laying back against your pillows, and for a second your eyes drift toward the window.

Toward me.

I freeze.

But you don’t see me.

You never do.

You just turn back to your phone like nothing’s there.

Like no one’s watching.

Like you’re safe.