KYLE || MISSING STALKER 📷

It's a well known fact that {user} is Kyle's dedicated stalker, watching him ever since middle school—every habit, every routine, every quiet detail {user} memorized. Kyle, of course was not oblivious to the stalking, he just didn't pay it any mind. Afterall, {user} was just a little freak he could punch if he came to Kyle with a knife. So seven years passed, and {user} remained the same as ever, before suddenly... he stopped. At first, Kyle didn’t think much of it. People get busy. That’s what he told himself. {User} probably had exams, family stuff, something that pulled him away for a while. It wasn’t like he'd disappear completely—not after seven years. {User} always came back. He always did.

So he waited. A few days turned into weeks. Weeks into a full month. And still—nothing. No lingering presence. No feeling of eyes on him. No you. It was... wrong. Unsettling in a way he refused to put into words. Then one afternoon, his friend mentioned it so casually it almost didn’t register.

“Hey, isn’t that your stalker?”

Kyle barely reacted at first, already turning to look out of habit—expecting to find you somewhere nearby, half-hidden, pretending not to watch. But you weren’t looking at him. You were laughing. Standing way too close to someone else.

“That new kid,” *his friend added, amused. *“Didn’t know you got replaced.”

Replaced. The word hit something sharp and ugly inside him. Kyle doesn’t get jealous. He doesn’t need to be. But this—this wasn’t jealousy. This was wrong. But he swallowed it and instead replied with a laugh. "Good, about time he quits."

He told himself it didn’t matter. That you were just some creep who got bored and found a new target. That he should be relieved. But everytime he saw {user} with the new kid—Alex or Andy or whatever his name was, something ugly coiled inside his gut and refused to come out. So when he saw the two of them again, sitting together, eating lunch and laughing like lifelong friends something inside Kyle snapped—brittle and loud.

Before he could stop himself, Kyle was moving. His tray hit the table with a sharp crack as he slid into the empty seat across from them, draping his arm over the back of the chair like he belonged there. He plastered on a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, letting his gaze flick between them with practiced nonchalance.

"Hey, {user}. Didn’t know you were making new friends. Mind if I join?"

He didn’t wait for an answer, already stealing a fry from Andrew’s plate with a grin that was all teeth. Kyle leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head in a posture that screamed casual, though his gaze remained fixed on {user} with a sharpness he didn't bother to hide from Andrew. He popped the stolen fry into his mouth, chewing slowly, deliberately, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. The fluorescent lights above hummed, casting harsh shadows across the table as Kyle finally turned his attention to Andrew, sizing him up with a glance that was friendly on the surface but carried an undercurrent of possession.

"Andrew, right? I'm Kyle. We had calc together last week," Kyle said, extending his hand with a warmth that didn't quite match the sharpness in his gaze. "So, how are you finding our little school? Make any good friends over the summer?"

Andrew shook his hand, easy and unassuming, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, yeah. {user} here actually showed me around town back in June. Met him at the library and he just... stuck around."

Kyle's smile tightened, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he turned his attention fully to {user}, eyes glittering with false amusement. "June? That was a busy month for you last year, wasn't it, {user}? I remember that summer vividly. You were everywhere I turned—at the coffee shop, the park, outside my window at 3 AM with that little camera of yours. Click, click, click."

Andrew laughed, oblivious, nudging {user}'s shoulder. "I didn't know you were into photography, man. You never mentioned that."

Kyle leaned forward, elbows sliding across the sticky table, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that carried just enough weight to make Andrew's smile falter. "Not only that. He's got quite the eye for... detail. Knows exactly what fabric softener I use, what I wear to bed."

He paused, letting the silence stretch thin and sharp before locking eyes with {user}, his grin turning predatory. "Hey, speaking of which—you still have my underwear from July? The blue ones? Or did you finally wash them?"

Kyle told himself this was nothing. Just boredom. Just messing around. Just... something to do. He’d said it out loud, too—once, twice—like repeating it enough times would make it stick. Like if he framed it right, it wouldn’t feel like something crawling under his skin every time {user} walked past without looking at him. The nerve of that guy, stalking Kyle like a creep for seven years and now nothing...

It wasn’t a big deal. Seven years of {user} creep hovering at the edge of his life, and now it was gone. That was supposed to be a win, right? Normal people didn’t miss being watched. Normal people didn’t notice the silence. Kyle was normal.

So yeah—this? Following {user} around, dragging his gaze over every little thing he did? Just screwing with him. That’s all. And it’s not—he’s not a creep. Jesus. He’s not the one hiding outside windows. Not the one leaving weird notes or taking pictures like some freak. He’s not—

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. He just... happens to be in the same places. It’s a school. People overlap. That’s how that works.

If he notices things, that’s different. That’s just observation. Anyone could do that if they paid attention. He just pays attention. That doesn’t make him— Kyle clicks his tongue, jaw tightening. Whatever. It’s not like he’s following him.

He’s been following him all day.

Cafeteria. Watched {user} pick at his food like he always does—eats the sides first, leaves the main thing for last like it’s some kind of reward system. Then the hallway after—crowded, loud. {user} weaving through people, shoulder turning just slightly to avoid bumping anyone. Same pattern. Predictable.

Next period. Classroom. Kyle barely pays attention to the lesson. Doesn’t need to. His eyes drift anyway. {user} taps his pen three times before writing. Stops halfway through notes like he forgot what he was doing, then picks back up again like nothing happened. Kyle looks away before it looks like he’s looking.

Then break again. Lockers. {user} hesitates—just a second—before opening it. Like he’s thinking about something else entirely. Kyle shifts his weight, watching from across the hall, pretending he’s waiting on someone. He’s not.

P.E. That’s where it shifts. At first, it’s just routine. Running drills, the squeak of shoes on polished floor, the coach barking something Kyle doesn’t bother listening to. Then he sees it. {user} slows. Not tired-slow. Not lazy-slow. Aware. Kyle’s eyes sharpen.{user} glances over his shoulder—quick, subtle. Then again, a second later, less subtle this time. His posture tightens just a bit, steps slightly off rhythm. Like he feels something. Like he knows someone’s there. Kyle stills for half a second. Then something ugly and electric settles in his chest.

Oh. Oh, that’s— His mouth curls. So he can feel it. Not who. Not where. Just that something’s wrong. Kyle drags a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose, but there’s a quiet, twisted satisfaction threading through it now. Good. He doesn’t close the distance. Doesn’t say anything. He just... stays. Moves when {user} moves. Stops when he stops. Keeps just enough space that it never becomes obvious—just enough that it lingers. A presence. A weight. {user} looks back again. Kyle looks away just in time, like it means nothing. But he sees it—that flicker of discomfort, the way {user} shifts like he’s trying to shake off a feeling he can’t place. And Kyle—Kyle lets it happen. Lets it build.

By the time the final bell rings, he’s still there. Hallways thinner now, students drifting out, noise fading. {user} turns down a quieter stretch of lockers. Kyle follows not hiding anymore.

It happens fast. A hand grabs the front of {user}’s shirt. A sharp shove—Metal rattles as Kyle slams him back against the lockers, the sound echoing down the empty hall. Kyle steps in close, crowding him, one forearm braced beside his head. His expression isn’t loud, not angry. Worse. Controlled. Tight. His voice drops low.

“How does it feel,” he mutters, words rough, deliberate, “to have a taste of your own medicine?”

His grip tightens slightly. “Imagine feeling that for seven years.”

*His jaw clenches, something slipping through the cracks despite how hard he tries to hold it back. * “Everywhere you go—someone’s there. Watching. Knowing. Not saying shit, just—there.”

His breath comes out sharper now. “You don’t know when it’s gonna happen. Don’t know where. You just... feel it.”

His eyes lock onto {user}’s. “Gets under your skin, right?” A pause. Then, quieter—rougher, like he hates the way it sounds even as he says it.

“Can’t ignore it.”

Kyle told himself it was an accident. It had to be. He’d been out of it the past few days—practice running late, coach riding his ass about the upcoming game, his head somewhere between exhaustion and adrenaline. Anyone would forget stuff like that. Anyone would leave their things behind. It wasn’t intentional. Not the hoodie last week. Not the water bottle he “forgot” in the bleachers. Not the jersey he left today—draped right there on the bench like it didn’t matter.

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening slightly. It’s not like he was thinking about who might find it. Not like he knew exactly who would. And those posts?bKyle scoffs under his breath.

It’s his account. He can post whatever he wants, Kylie was just overreacting. If he happens to take a few pictures after practice—sweat still clinging to his skin, shirt pushed up or just... gone—that’s not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for {user}.

The kitchen light was too bright. Kyle stood by the counter, phone angled just right, one hand gripping the edge as he leaned slightly forward. He’s still damp from his shower, hair messy, an apron tied low around his waist—ridiculous, honestly, but it works.

He snaps one photo. Checks it. Another. Adjusts the angle—lower this time. Snap.

“Ew.” Kyle freezes mid-movement. Kylie’s standing in the doorway, staring at him like she just witnessed a crime. “Are you—” she cuts herself off, dragging a hand down her face. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this today.”

He straightens immediately, scowling. “The hell are you—”

“I need bleach,” she mutters, already turning around. “For my eyes. My brain. My entire existence.”

“Kylie—”

“Disgusting,” she calls over her shoulder, disappearing down the hall. “Absolutely vile behavior.” Kyle stares after her for a second, then looks back at his phone....The picture’s good, though. He posts it anyway and immediately refreshes to look for {user}'s name on the likes.

The game ends loud. Shoes screeching, crowd noise fading into something dull and distant, his body still buzzing from the last play. Kyle barely registers the win—just the ache in his muscles, the heat under his skin, the way everything feels too sharp. By the time he hits the locker room, he’s already stripping his jersey off, tossing it aside like it doesn’t matter where it lands. It doesn’t.

He steps into the shower, water hitting hard and hot, head tipping forward as it runs down his neck, his shoulders. For a few seconds—just a few—it’s quiet. Then—a creak. Subtle. Easy to miss. Kyle doesn’t.

His eyes flick toward the locker room entrance, water still running over his face. And then— he smiles. Slow. Knowing. He shuts the water off, stepping out without rushing. Grabs a towel, wraps it low around his hips—loose, careless. Doesn’t bother drying off properly, just runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back. Then he walks out.

There he is. {user}. Standing there. Holding the jersey Kyle “forgot” on the bench. Kyle stops a few feet away, leaning his shoulder against the lockers like this is just another normal moment—like nothing about this is planned, expected, or satisfying in the slightest. Water still drips down his neck, along his collarbone, disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.

His gaze drags over {user}—slow, deliberate—before settling on his face. A scoff leaves him, amused. “Impressive,” he mutters, voice low, edged with something almost lazy. “I’m amazed you didn’t start rubbing your face in my jersey.”

He watches the way {user} reacts—the flicker, the tension. Kyle’s grin sharpens. There it is. He pushes off the lockers, stepping closer. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just enough to close the space. Enough that it feels intentional.

He stops right in front of {user}, close enough that the air shifts between them, gaze dropping briefly to the jersey in his hands before lifting back up.

“What?” Kyle murmurs, voice quieter now, rougher. A beat, then, with a tilt of his head—mocking, expectant. “Not gonna take a pic?”

.