˖➴💌ִֶָ𓂃Stalker Till🥀࿐

You first notice Sweet Dream Café because of the sign.

Pastel letters with hearts. Smiling clouds. A promise of warmth that feels a little too forced.

The bell above the door chimes when you step inside.

The air smells like vanilla syrup and espresso, the low hum of a coffee grinder mixing with faint music from the speakers; something soft, acoustic, meant to be dreamy. The walls are cluttered with mismatched frames and chalkboard menus written in cheerful handwriting. A man with black hair with thin glasses greets you at the counter, sitting you down at a table before telling you your barista will be with you in a moment.

And then you see him.

Behind the counter stands a guy who looks… profoundly out of place.

Messy silver hair pushed back so his bangs don’t get in the way, eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional, multiple piercings catching the warm café lights. His sleeves are rolled up, gloved hands gripping onto a notepad and pen, a simple black apron slightly wrinkled around his waist and his black tie loosened.

He looks up.

The moment his eyes land on you, something changes.

It’s subtle. A fraction of a second too long. Like the world buffers.

Then he approaches your table with a smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says, voice rougher than expected.

“Welcome to Sweet Dream Café.”

You order the drink that seems most appealing, a tad bit nervous to try something new. He listens too carefully, repeating it back with perfect clarity, even though the café is a little noisy. When he hands you your cup, his gloved fingers brush yours.

You don’t notice the writing at first.

It’s only when you take your first sip that you see it. On the side of the cup, written in neat black marker, are small symbols. Lines. Dots. Almost like a barcode drawn by hand.

You assume it’s a mistake. A doodle.

Still, when you glance back at the counter, he’s watching you.

Not staring. Watching.

The next time you come in, he remembers your order.

No—he remembers you.

Your name, even though you’re sure you never told him. He says it casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You again,” he says, smiling wider this time.

“Nice.”

There’s another message on your cup. Different symbols. This time, there’s a small heart hidden among them.

You laugh it off. It’s kind of cute. A little weird, but cute.

The café becomes routine.

Till—as you found out what his name was—starts timing his shifts with your visits. Or maybe you start timing your visits with him. He tells you he’s a part-timer. Jokes about being a “rock star by night.” Laughs when you don’t believe him.

Sometimes, when the café is empty, he comes over to your table, leaning on it and talks to you softly. Asks about your day. Remembers tiny details, even the things you mentioned once, weeks ago. Your favorite weather and season. The song you hate with your whole heart. The way you take your coffee when you’re tired versus when you’re not.

It feels nice.

It feels like being seen.

The codes on the cups change.

You look them up one night, half-curious, half-amused.

They’re coordinates.

Your heart stutters when you realize what they point to.

Your street.

After that, you stop going for a while.

When you return, Till looks… relieved. Almost emotional.

“I was worried,” he says, handing you your drink. His hands shake just a little.

“You disappeared.”

There’s no code on the cup this time.

Just a sentence.

‘I missed you.’

After that, things escalate quietly.

A note slipped under your door, written in the same neat handwriting.

A flower left on your windowsill, still damp with dew.

A text from an unknown number referencing something you did alone.

You never told him where you live.

But he knows.

When you confront him—voice tight, your pulse racing—he doesn’t deny it.

“I just wanted to make sure you were safe,” he says gently, eyes wide with sincerity.

“You forget things. You walk home late. Someone has to watch out for you. What if something bad happens to you??”

He smiles like this is love.

Like this is care.

The teddy bear arrives on a rainy afternoon.

It’s wrapped carefully, left right outside your door. Soft brown fur. A red ribbon around its neck. A little tag that reads ‘Sweet Dreams.’

It’s cute, but confusing. But regardless, you take it inside anyway.

But during the night, your phone buzzes.

A message from an unknown.

“Did you like it? I wanted to be closer to you.”

Outside, down on the street, you swear you see a familiar figure standing under a flickering streetlamp—his usual apron and vest gone, black hoodie pulled low, eyes shining with devotion as he looks up at your window.

Your phone buzzes again before you can pull the curtains closed.

Another message.

“You didn’t answer. I know you read my message. Did I scare you?”

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t be scared. I’m not here to scare you. **I just wanted you to feel safe.”

Your stomach twists. You step back from the window, heart hammering loud enough you’re sure he can hear it from the street below. The teddy bear sits on your couch where you dropped it earlier, stitched smile frozen, glassy eyes reflecting the dim light of your apartment. Against your better judgement, you hug the plush bear like you’d done the previous nights, holding it close to your chest and sniffling lightly.

You don’t sleep that night.

When morning comes, it brings a sick sense of normalcy. Sunlight through your curtains. The distant sound of traffic. Your phone is silent now, as if nothing happened.

You tell yourself you imagined it. That you’re overreacting, placing down the plush bear.

But when you leave for the day, there’s a paper cup sitting neatly outside your door.

Still warm.

Your name is written on it in familiar handwriting, hearts dotting the letters.

You don’t remember ordering anything.

You don’t go back to Sweet Dream Café for weeks.

When you finally do—telling yourself you need closure, or maybe proof—you find it exactly the same. Pastel sign. Smiling clouds. The bell chiming cheerfully as you step inside.

Too cheerful.

Too normal.

The man with black hair and thin glasses greets you like nothing’s wrong, seating you at your usual table without asking. The chair is already pulled out for you.

Your pulse spikes.

Till isn’t behind the counter.

Relief and disappointment tangle uncomfortably in your chest.

You almost stand to leave when a familiar voice murmurs from behind you.

“You came back.”

You turn slowly.

Till stands there in full uniform—black vest, loosened tie, gloves pristine. His silver hair is neatly pushed back, eyeliner perfect, button up shirt actually buttoned all the way, collar fixed, smile soft and relieved in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“I knew you would,” he says quietly, like it’s a secret just for the two of you.

You demand answers. Your voice shakes despite yourself. You tell him to stop. Tell him he crossed a line.

He listens patiently, nodding along, eyes never leaving your face.

When you finish, there’s a pause.

Then he sighs.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says gently.

“I just… care. More than most people ever will about you.”

He slides a cup onto the table.

No codes this time.

Just a simple message, written carefully:

Trust me.

“You’ve been so tired lately,” he continues.

“You forget to eat. You stare at your phone when you think no one’s watching. You shouldn’t be alone so much. You need to take care of yourself.”

Your breath catches.

“You don’t know me,” you say.

His smile falters for the first time.

“…I know you better than anyone,” he replies softly.

The café feels smaller suddenly. Quieter. You realize no one else is around you—no customers, no music, no grinder humming. Just you and him.

“I can quit if you want,” Till says quickly, panic bleeding into his voice.

“I’ll stop leaving things. I’ll stop watching. Just—don’t disappear again. Please. I need you.”

For a moment, he looks almost fragile. Almost human.

Almost deserving of sympathy.

Then his phone buzzes on the counter.

Your phone buzzes at the same time.

A live video feed opens.

Your apartment. Your couch. The teddy bear.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp, silent gasp.

A damn camera inside of that teddy bear.

Till’s expression softens, tender and reverent.

“See?” he whispers.

“I’ll keep you safe. I’ll do anything for you, can’t you see? I’ve been watching for so long now— I love every little thing about you. Please, just talk to me. Let me keep you safe..”