Dear Stalker.

I wonder as I look at you sipping that drink alone in the open whether a time will come when I’ll no longer see you. Forget the dark when the monsters successfully chase you away. I mean every other day when the light keeps the monsters at bay.

I wonder if you remember the first day I noticed you. My mother loves to tell that story. How I was two and walking down the street with her. How I noticed you doing everything I did, and called for her. Of course back then I was amused with reflections. I looked for them everywhere and laughed or made faces at the mirror. But you were not like the rest. You came in the same colour and had no facial features. That first day though, you scared me and I turned round in circles but the dizziness only made me forget and didn’t run you away. I pointed at you but I can’t tell if you pointed back. I saw your hand move but your finger could have been pointing anywhere it pleased.

I wonder if you forgot the first time we played. Genuinely played. Without fear of being laughed at. It was a class project and we were supposed to determine the position of the sun. As though it would somehow change in our year! Then, my fascination with you was not considered vain, it was educative. I jumped and you jumped. I danced and you danced. I made finger impressions and saw them clearly through you. It was the day I learnt you are not a perfect reflection. The frays of my dress and the little hairs that stuck out on my head didn’t grace your appearance. Or did I just miss them, enamored as I was with your perfection.

I wonder if the long walks we took every evening are only in my head. I was always on time, I love to think. And somehow we kept up with our daily dates all the way till work demanded I sacrifice my evenings. We’d walk side by side and I’d rumble on about everything I was doing. Do you remember those conversations we had? Or has everything about us been one-sided and the reason you only ever appear as gray and dull as you always do is because you are uninterested? Simply tethered to me with no choice.

I wonder if you remember X, the photographer who was obsessed with you. He went out with me just to get to you. You probably don’t know what it feels like to be used. But he always had high praise for you. He took more photos of you than we made memories of that doomed relationship. How your waist always appeared more defined than mine. How your legs were longer at just the right time of day and your upper body appeared slimmer. Did he make all that up? Is it when we reawakened our affair? Well...my affair. That now I always give you the second glance.

With all these questions, it's hard to tell if you were stalking me or I was stalking you.