Page 2 of Love Me Stalk Me
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Evan looked at me like he actually saw me, laughed at my jokes instead of just exhaling through his nose, and pulled me into his lap instead of leaning away when I tried to touch him in public. Back when I was lighter, when stress hadn’t driven me to late-night ice cream binges and comfort pasta. Back before his expectations and the relentless pressure of my job started carving themselves into my body—softening my once-flat stomach, rounding my cheeks.
I tell myself this is just a rough patch, that he still loves me, that he's just stressed—even though deep down, I know this is just who he is now.
I watch as he thumbs through Instagram, pausing briefly on a post before tilting his screen toward me.
"Damn, look at her," he says, showing me a photo of some influencer posing in front of a gym mirror, abs flexed, a slick sheen of sweat on her impossibly toned stomach. "She's been absolutely killing it lately."
His voice holds a hint of admiration he hasn't used for me in quite some time. I turn away from his phone, my appetite shrinking into a hard knot. He doesn't say “you should look like this”—he doesn't have to. The subtext is clear.
I glance down at myself, at my dress clinging too snugly to my middle, at how my thighs spread wide. I can feel the seam of my dress digging into my waist, a constant reminder of the body I now inhabit. Evan doesn't think I'm sexy, not the way I am now. I already knew this—he's been dropping hints for months, like casually mentioning an article about intermittent fasting or nudging a gym membership flyer toward me on the counter. Or now, showing me a woman he actually finds attractive and hoping I take the hint.
I set my water glass down too hard on the starched white tablecloth. Evan doesn't notice. He just keeps scrolling.
I watch his perfectly manicured fingers swipe at his screen, his Rolex glinting under the restaurant's lighting. He's the picture of finance bro elegance—Met Gala-level suit, slicked-back blond hair with not a strand out of place, sharp jawline that could probably get him a modeling contract if he ever decided to retire from emotionally neglecting his girlfriend.
Once upon a time, this was exactly the type of guy I wanted. When I was younger, I had a very specific idea of what my dream man looked like. And sure, it may be oddly similar to a specific Tiktok song, but I maintain I had the vision first: works in finance (with opinions about the stock market but doesn't make it his whole personality), trust fund baby (but one of the humble ones), over six feet tall (becauseobviously), and blue eyes (because I was shallow). Somehow, against all odds, I actually got him—the New York finance guy of my teenage dreams who quickly turned into a bit of a nightmare.
I should have known better. My mother tried to warn me, though not for the right reasons. If she'd told me he was emotionally unavailable, condescending, and about as warm as a marble countertop, maybe I would have listened. But her problem with Evan had nothing to do with who he was as a person and everything to do with the fact that after three years of dating, he still hadn't proposed.
Three years of fielding the same conversation at every family gathering with the same pointed questions: So, when are you getting married? Do you think maybe he's just waiting for you to say something? You're not getting any younger, Isabella.
My mother makes these digs sound casual, but I hear the real message underneath and feel it when she looks at me with concern, like I'm running out of time and should be worried too. I see how her eyes linger on my fuller figure, how she frowns slightly when I reach for seconds at Sunday dinner. She’s never said it, but I can feel it in her eyes: maybe if you lost the weight, he'd finally commit.
My three older brothers—Matteo, Luca, and Nico—have their own opinions about Evan. Nico, the youngest and most reckless, doesn't try to be subtle: "I could take him," he once said, straight-faced, over my mother's lasagna. "Just let me know when."
Matteo, the oldest who pretends to be above it all, just shakes his head when Evan's name comes up, like my entire relationship is some deeply unfortunate life decision that he's quietly choosing not to acknowledge. And Luca flat-out doesn't speak to Evan when they're in the same room, which would probably bother Evan if he weren't too busy being smug about "intimidating" my brothers.
I pretend not to care what they think, but I know they're right. This relationship isn't going anywhere. Evan doesn't love me the way I want to be loved. But I stay because the alternative means admitting I wasted three years of my life and facing the battle that would follow. Breaking up with Evan wouldn't just be breaking up—it would mean explaining myself to my family, dealing with my mother's worried sighs, my father's quiet disappointment, and my brothers' smug "I told you so" looks. It would mean proving them right.
So instead, I sit across from a man who barely acknowledges me, pretending this is enough, that I am enough.
But beneath all the reasons I tell myself I stay, there's one I never let surface—one that sits heavy and unspoken in my soul. Thereal reason I don't leave isn't my family. It's me, and the voice inside my head that sounds like Evan when we fight, when his frustration cracks through his perfect exterior and his words turn mean.
“You think you'll find someone better than me? Guys don't want a girl like you, Izzy. They don't want someone who doesn't take care of herself. Look at you—you're not the girl I started dating. I could be with someone who actually respects me enough to put effort into her body, but I'm with you. I choose you.”
That's the part that guts me most—somewhere along the way, I started believing him. Started believing that if I walked away, I wouldn't just be single. I'd be alone, because who else would want me? I work too much, I'm too busy, I don't have the slim body that makes men go wild or the effortless beauty that makes people stare. Not anymore.
Evan reminds me of that often, always sounding almost reasonable, like he's just trying to help, like he wants me to be better. And maybe I should want to be better. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should be grateful someone like him stays with someone like me.
What if it's true? What if Evan is the best I'll ever get? What if I leave and no one else wants me? What if this is my only shot at not ending up alone?
It doesn't matter because I'm not leaving. I already made my choice. I chose him, even if deep down I know he doesn't really choose me in return. The beginnings of a tension headache form, and internally, I groan. This dinner is supposed to be a celebration of my promotion, yet here I am, feeling smaller than ever.
Our food arrives with a waft of charred meat and herbs. Evan sets his phone down but still doesn't look up, his eyes darting between phone and plate. I visibly roll my eyes, not that he'd notice, and try to take a bite of steak with the texture of a hockey puck.
I glare at the pathetic salad on my plate, no dressing, no croutons—nothing that might make this punishment disguised as dinner remotely enjoyable. The bitter greens sit in sad contrast to the perfectly crisp, golden potato side on Evan's plate. Three years ago, we shared appetizers, ordered dessert, split a bottle of wine that left our lips stained purple and our laughter loose. Now I'm being fed like a reluctant zoo animal.
I clear my throat and sit up straighter, the fabric of my dress pulling across my chest, determined to salvage the night. "I spent half the day in an operations meeting about the seasonal inventory rollout. They're projecting a twenty percent increase in holiday foot traffic, so I need to finalize the hiring plan by next week and make surethe new associates are trained in time."
"Mmhmm." He's still scrolling.
"It's a logistical nightmare. The corporate team has ideas about maximizing sales, but they don't actually work in the store, so half of it isn't realistic. They want us to push high-end accessories at checkout, which sounds great except the only people who impulse-buy a $900 scarf are those who don't need to be upsold in the first place."
"Oh. Right." Clearly not listening, he pops bread into his mouth, dismissing me completely. The buttery smell wafts across the table, tempting me. His eyes trail over my plate, noticing I've barely touched my salad. "Not hungry?"
The way he says it makes my skin crawl—like he's checking to make sure I'm sticking to some unspoken diet plan we never agreed on.
I don’t bother responding. I glance around the restaurant at the couple next to us actually talking, laughing, engaging. The clink of their glasses as they toast mingles with the soft murmur of their conversation. The man leans toward his date, hands brushing over her bare arms, gaze full of admiration. When was the last time Evan looked at me like that? When was the last time I felt like more than background noise in his life?
