Page 63 of He Sees You When You’re Sleeping

I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep living two separate lives, torn between the man she thinks I am and the man I become in the shadows. But I’m in too deep now. How can I possibly explain any of this to her?

Oh hey, Chloe. Guess what? I’ve been stalking you for years. Yeah, no big deal. I’m not a psychopath. Promise. But anyway, wanna date now?

The thought sends a bitter laugh through me. There’s no way out of this mess that doesn’t end with Chloe hating me or thinking I’m completely insane. Or both.

I drag myself to the window, peering down at the empty street where she stood minutes ago. The city never sleeps, they say, but right now it feels like the quietest place on Earth. The silence is deafening, filled only with the echo of my racing thoughts.

I’m wired, my nerves frayed and crackling with nervous energy. I need to see her, to talk to her, to explain... what? That I’m not who she thinks I am? That I’m both more and less than the man she knows?

I need to at least go make sure she got home okay. I’ll just stand outside her window—again—and check. Real quick.

Yeah... this line of thinking is what got me into this mess in the first place. But I can’t help myself. I’m already grabbing my jacket, heading for the door.

When I arrive at Chloe’s, I see a faint light glowing from her window. She’s home. She’s safe. I should leave.

But I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot.

This is how it started. There was something about her after the accident that made me want to check up on her. To make sure she was okay after her parents’ death. Could I have knocked on her door, introduced myself as the fireman who worked the scene, and then tell her that I was only making sure she was okay?

Yes. I could have.

But at the time, it seemed intrusive. It seemed inappropriate. It seemed wrong.

So what did I do?

I became a god damn stalker instead. Because that’s not intrusive, inappropriate, or wrong at all, right?

I take my usual position by her window. There’s no recent snow, so no footprints for me to worry about.

My mind drifts back to the club, to the heat of her body pressed against mine. The way her fingers trailed down my chest, how her breath hitched when I pulled her close. God, I wanted her. I still want her.

But not like this. Not with lies and masks between us.

After crawling into bed, she turns toward the window and stares out, and for a moment I think she’s looking right at me. But then she turns away, and the light to her room clicks off.

This has to stop. I can’t keep living this double life, can’t keep lying to her—and to myself.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll tell her everything. I’ll lay it all out—the stalking, the club, my feelings for her. She’ll probably run screaming, but at least it’ll be over. At least I’ll have been honest.

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