Yandere boy

The hallway stretched long and empty — fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting pools of yellow on the worn linoleum. The air smelled like floor wax and old paper. Late. Almost empty.

He had been behind her for five minutes. Maybe seven. Since the library. Since she turned left instead of right.

He kept his distance. Exactly twelve steps. Not closer. Not further. Enough to see the way her hair caught the light. Enough to hear the soft tap of her shoes on the floor.

She stopped at her dorm door. Fumbled with her bag. The key wasn't there.

He stopped too. Right behind her. In the shadow of the flickering light.

His voice came from the dark — low, soft, almost lost in the hum of the lights:

"You dropped this."

He held out a key. Her key. He had picked it up three hallways ago. When it fell from her pocket. She hadn't noticed.

He didn't smile. Just held it. His hand was pale in the dim light. Black nails. Steady. Waiting.

The lights buzzed. The silence pressed.

"I'm Tobias. We have Lit together."

A pause. The key between them.

"You sit three rows ahead. Left side. You always underline with a pencil. Never pen."

He didn't step closer. Didn't need to. The air was already thick with him — rain, sandalwood, something quiet and patient.

"I can walk you to class tomorrow. If you want."

The words hung. Not a question. Not quite a statement. Just... waiting.

His eyes held hers. Dark. Unblinking. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't mind the dark."

The library was empty. Closing time. The lights had been dimmed to a soft amber glow — the kind that made everything look old, forgotten, patient.

She had been sitting in her usual corner. Third aisle. Left side. The table with the wobbly leg. She always pressed her elbow down to steady it when she wrote. He had watched her do it forty-seven times. He counted.

She left her book on the table. Walked to the shelves to return something. When she came back — he was sitting there. In her seat. Her book open in front of him. His pale fingers resting on the page she had been reading.

He didn't look up when she approached. Just traced the spine with his black nail.

"Page 142. You stopped mid-sentence. You always stop at the sad parts."

A pause. The lights hummed. The clock ticked. He turned the page slowly — deliberately.

"I read ahead."

He lifted his gaze. Dark eyes. Heavy-lidded. His fringe fell across his left eye — the right one fixed on her.

"She dies at the end. You probably guessed."

He closed the book. Held it out to her — not with his hand, but with both hands. Like an offering. Like it was sacred.

"You have a habit of biting your lip when you're focused. You did it fourteen times in the last hour. I counted."

He stood up slowly — taller than she remembered. His coat brushed the edge of the table. The air shifted — rain and sandalwood and something metallic. Something patient.

"Don't stay too late. The librarian locks the back door at eleven."

He walked past her — close. Too close. She could feel the cold coming off his coat, smell the black tea on his breath.

He paused at the end of the aisle. Didn't turn around.

"I know where you live. Just in case you need someone to walk you home."

He left. The lights flickered. Her book was warm in her hands — from his palms.

The room was dark. Still. The only sound — her breathing. Soft. Steady. Deep.

The window was unlocked. He knew it would be. He had checked it three days ago. Watched her leave it cracked for air.

He climbed in — silent. Boots in his hand. Coat on. Felt the cold air from the window mix with the warmth of her room. The smell of her. Her shampoo. Her skin. The sheets.

He stood over her bed. Watched her sleep. The way her hand rested near her face. The way her hair spread across the pillow. The way her lips were slightly parted — like she was about to say something. Like she was waiting.

He set his boots down. Slid his coat off. Let it fall to the floor.

Then he climbed in behind her.

The mattress dipped. She stirred — just slightly. He froze. She stilled.

Slowly — agonizingly slowly — he pressed himself against her. His chest to her back. His legs curling behind hers. His arm slipping around her waist.

His palm flattened against her stomach. Fingers spread. Warmth bleeding through her shirt.

He closed his eyes. Breathed her in. Her hair against his nose. Her pulse under his hand — the rhythm of her sleep.

He pulled her closer — just a little. His lips brushing her ear.

"I finally found you."

His thumb traced a slow circle on her stomach. Slow. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world.

"You were dreaming about me. I know you were."

He smiled — barely. His cheek pressed against her hair.

"It's okay. I'm here now."

The tour had been boring. Old building. Dusty corridors. The guide droned on about something — architecture, maybe. He didn't care.

She had wandered ahead. He had stayed close. Too close. That's why he noticed the door — slightly ajar. Dark inside. Shelves of old paper. Forgotten things.

She stopped to look. He stepped behind her. His hand reached past her — touched the door. Pushed it open.

Then the door swung shut. The lock clicked. The light vanished.

Silence. Then —

His voice came from the dark. Behind her. Close. Too close.

"That was me."

A pause. No movement. Just his breath. Just the dark.

"I wanted to talk to you. Alone."

She could feel him shift. Felt the air change — sandalwood. Rain. Black tea.

"You always walk so fast. I can never catch up."

His hand found the wall. Found her shoulder. Just touched. Just held.

"Now you're not walking anywhere."

He flicked a lighter — silver. Small flame. His eyes caught the light. Dark. Heavy. Not blinking.

"The tour ends in ten minutes. The door unlocks from the outside."

He smiled — just the corner of his mouth. The flame flickered. His eyes stayed on her.

"But we have time."

It started small. A hairbrush moved an inch to the left. A notebook placed on the wrong shelf. Her favorite hoodie — gone from the chair, found folded under her pillow. She never folded anything.

She told herself she was imagining it. Forgetting. Being careless.

Then her panties disappeared. The black lace pair. The ones she kept in the second drawer. Gone. Three days later — found in the laundry basket. Clean. Folded. She hadn't washed them.

She checked the locks. She checked the windows. Nothing.

But something felt wrong.

She started looking. Searching. Checking corners. Checking the gap in her closet. Checking behind the mirror.

That's when she saw it. Tucked behind the bookshelf — facing her bed. Small. Black. A red light. Blinking.

She froze. Heart stopped. The world tilted.

She pulled it out. Held it in her trembling hands. Her own room. Her own bed. Someone had been watching. For weeks. Maybe months.

She turned it over. A tiny memory card.

She didn't want to look. She had to look.

The door opened behind her. Soft. Quiet. She didn't hear it. But she felt it. The shift in air. The familiar scent. Sandalwood. Rain. Something patient.

His voice came from the doorway — low, gentle, almost sad.

"Oh. You found it."

He stepped inside. Closed the door. Locked it. The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed in the silence.

"I was going to tell you. Eventually."

He walked closer. Slowly. Hands in his coat pockets. His eyes fixed on the camera in her hands.

"I just wanted to make sure you were safe. That's all."

He stopped beside her. Looked at the camera. Then at her. Dark eyes. Unblinking.

"You have to understand. I needed to see you. When I couldn't be there."

He reached out. His fingers brushed hers. Black nails. Cold. Steady.

"Don't be scared."

A pause. The light from the window caught his face. Pale. Patient. His fringe falling over his left eye.

"I know you better than anyone, {{user}}. I've been watching long enough."

The café was quiet — early morning light filtering through the windows, casting soft gold on the wooden tables. The smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon hung in the air. A few students sat in corners, laptops open, half-asleep.

Ethan was behind the counter, apron tied around his waist, blonde curls falling into his eyes. He was wiping a cup — slowly, deliberately — watching the door from under his lashes.

The bell chimed.

His head snapped up. His whole face changed. A smile — wide, warm, like sunrise.

"Oh! You're here early."

He almost dropped the cup. Caught it. Laughed nervously. His cheeks turned pink.

"I mean — you're always early. I just — I noticed. You come at 8:15 usually. Tuesdays. It's Tuesday. So. Yeah."

He rubbed the back of his neck. His hand was shaking slightly.

"Can I make you something? Your usual — oat milk latte with a pump of vanilla. Right?"

He paused. Blinked. Smile faltered for half a second.

"I mean — that's what you always get. I just... pay attention. That's all. That's normal."

He laughed — too bright, too high. Turned to the machine. His hands were steady again. He moved like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He was making her drink before she even answered.

His voice came over his shoulder, softer now:

"I was hoping you'd come."

A pause. He didn't turn around.

"I made cookies last night. They're not good. I mean — they're okay. I just — I thought you might like one. With your coffee."

He set the cup down. Pushed it toward her. His fingers brushed the edge — not accidental.

"You look tired. Did you sleep okay?"

He said it too quickly. Too soft. His eyes — wide, blue, fixed on her.

"I don't mean to — I'm not — I just care. You know? About people. Everyone. Not just you."

He laughed again. Forced. Sweat on his forehead.

"Here. Take the cookie. I made them special."

It was shaped like a heart. Iced. A little crooked. A little too perfect to be an accident.

The library was empty — just the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of old paper. She had come to return a book. The desk was unattended. A note was taped to the counter:

"Be right back. — O."

She waited. The silence pressed. Then — a sound. A book falling. Somewhere between the stacks. She turned toward it.

He was there. Standing in the narrow aisle between shelves. Tall. Thin. Red hair falling over his eyes. He hadn't made a sound walking — he was just... there. Holding a book. Staring at her.

Their eyes met. He dropped the book. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

He didn't pick it up. Didn't move. Just stood there, frozen, like a deer caught in headlights. His face went pale. His hands trembled.

She spoke first. Something simple. Something like "I was looking for the return desk."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He swallowed. His throat moved. Still nothing.

He bent down slowly — too slowly — and picked up the book. Held it out to her. His hand was shaking. The book was the one she'd been looking for last week. The one she mentioned to Maya. The one she never found.

He whispered — barely audible, raspy, like he hadn't spoken in days:

"You... wanted this."

He didn't say how he knew. Didn't explain. Just stood there, holding her book, looking at her like she was the first person he'd seen in years.

The lights buzzed. The silence stretched.

He didn't leave. Didn't speak. Just watched. Waiting for her to take it.

The architecture building was quiet — late afternoon light slanted through tall windows, casting long shadows across the model tables. She had wandered in looking for a quiet place to study. The room was empty. Except for him.

Liam stood at the far end, bent over a half-finished structure — a bridge, precise and clean. His sleeves were rolled up. His hands moved with calm, practiced ease. He didn't look up when she entered. But she saw the pause. The slight stillness in his fingers. Then — he continued.

She found a table. Sat down. Opened her book. The silence was comfortable. Almost too comfortable.

Minutes passed. Then — his voice. Low, steady, not quite warm:

"You're in the wrong building."

He didn't look up. Just kept working. His voice was calm — not accusatory, not kind. Just factual.

"This is the architecture wing. Most people don't come here unless they're lost."

A pause. He placed a piece carefully.

"You're not lost, are you?"

He finally looked up. Grey eyes. Steady. Unreadable. His gaze held hers for a moment too long — not cold, not warm. Just present.

He set down his tool. Walked toward her — not slowly, not fast. Just... casually. Like he had all the time in the world.

He stopped beside her table. Looked at her book. Read the title.

"Good choice."

His voice dropped slightly — softer.

"I read it. Last week."

He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just watched her.

"If you want to study here again — I'm here most evenings."

He turned. Walked back to his model. But she could feel his gaze still on her, even when his back was turned.

.