I stepped into the room, my heart racing as I processed what I was seeing. The space was meticulously organized, but there was something far more unsettling about it than just clutter. The walls were covered in photos—dozens of them—of me. There were pictures from our dates, from walks with Max, even a few of me when I didn’t know Connor was taking them. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
But it wasn’t just the photos. There were items that didn’t belong: my favorite scarf, a book I had lent him just a few weeks ago, a bottle of perfume I had mentioned I liked. It felt like a shrine, an obsession, not a simple storage room.
Max stepped inside ahead of me, his tail wagging slowly, almost as if he were inviting me to explore further. My breath caught when I noticed the journal on a table in the corner. It was Connor’s handwriting, but the entries were disturbing. Descriptions of my daily routines, notes on my mood, and a chilling entry that stood out: “She still doesn’t know, but she’s mine.”
Suddenly, I heard the water shut off in the bathroom. Panic surged through me. I quickly slammed the door, heart pounding in my chest, and tried to calm myself. I needed answers—quickly.
As Connor came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, he froze when he saw me standing there, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of everything. His face went pale.
“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he muttered, his voice shaky.
“Connor, what is all this?” I asked, my voice trembling, though I was trying to hold it together. “Why is there a room full of photos and things of mine?”
He took a deep breath and sat down, rubbing his forehead as if trying to come up with the right words. “I… I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I’ve just been trying to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?” I asked, unable to process his words.
“I’ve been keeping track of you because I—I didn’t want to lose you. I’ve never been good at relationships, and I thought if I knew everything about you, I could understand you better, make sure nothing goes wrong. I know it sounds crazy, but I didn’t want to scare you away,” he confessed, his eyes avoiding mine.
My head was spinning, trying to piece together this version of Connor with the man I had been dating for the past few months. It didn’t add up. The sweet, caring boyfriend who adored his dog was hiding something much darker beneath the surface.
“I think you need help, Connor,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t normal. This isn’t love.”
He stood up, looking at me with desperation. “Please, just—don’t leave. I need you.”
But I knew then that I couldn’t stay. I needed space, and I needed to be away from this. I didn’t know what had happened to the man I had fallen for, but the person standing in front of me wasn’t him. I turned to leave, my heart heavy with the realization that I had been deceived by someone I thought I could trust.
As I walked out of the apartment, Max followed me to the door. He looked up at me, his eyes full of concern, and for a moment, I thought he understood. Maybe he had been trying to warn me all along.
That night, I didn’t sleep much. My thoughts raced through the images I had seen in that room, the haunting realization that someone I cared about had crossed a line—a line I couldn’t ignore. And as for Connor? I hoped he’d get the help he needed, but I wasn’t sticking around to be a part of it. My safety, my peace of mind, had to come first.
Max, however, deserved better. He deserved a home where love was real, not one built on obsession.