Stalker Diaries

YESH I HAS COMPLETED IT.
Okay, so I realised that I haven't been doing any writing (writer's block is attacking, stronger than ever).
So I'm just trying. :D yayyayyayyay
Gosh, I hate writer's block. It just seeps into your brain. It's made me fear my fanfiction now. T.T

Light disclaimer:
I no stalk anyone. It just seemed... interesting to try and write from a stalker's point of view (no offence to stalkers out there! :D)
because I don't have the time and I get tired of things really easily. :D
Ellie, I has completed mai 'stalker story', you?

Now, if you dislike very crazily obsessive people ranting about how they stalk people, then do not click for more pencil shavings. :D

My world revolves around her, and her only.

I wish I could say she was the prettiest, kindest person in the world, but I cannot, because even these words cannot do her justice. Perhaps that is why I love her so. Her mistymysteriousbutohsobeautiful eyes are forever hidden behind those thick black spectacles. Her fringe is long, perhaps a little too long. She's a mystery, a Pandora's box that I can never open, no matter how hard I desire.

(What is holding me back?)

A few days ago, she smiled, but today she was grim, serious. No smiles graced her lips, but she still looked so beautiful, so enchantingly so. Like an intricate pattern of wriggly twists and knots, made up of metal wires wrung into a ball.

Fireflies-- a golden, royal touch, glide around her mussed hair, pulled back into a ponytail. I wish I could reach over and gently pull out that restricting band, but I fear. I fear being stupefied by the ebony, ethereal ribbons that frame her delicate, tanned face. I fear the sudden grimace and raised eyebrows-- the sudden disfigurement of her still beautiful face. I fear too much to approach, to touch.

(Perhaps this is what that's holding me back. Fear.)

___

I look out of the window, bored. My notes are filled with her name, all around, random sketches that only appeal to me. Nobody notices my passion, and in a way it's a good thing--I'll be able to keep watching her from afar. It will be awkward to say it out loud. I wonder if it's an insult to be ashamed of loving her. I'm torn between just watching her, or getting myself heard and known. My fingers slide past the initials of her name, and just repeating it makes my lips curl up in a grin. A.C. Aure--

--I see her.

And my heart literally stops. My first instinct is to duck, which I do so gladly, only to peek. She's rushing across the corridor and I sigh. If only she could just walk. I haven't seen her as elegant as usual, and it tugs at my heart. She's been busy lately, her hair pulled back messily into a ponytail, her eyes clouded with confusion and troubles. Now, during those little sessions when I finally get to speak to her (a few lines of exchange, no less formal), her eyes are not on me, her head is tilted to the side, impatient. She doesn't let a sweet smile linger on her luscious lips, not even for a second. Her fingers are always pushing her fringe back, but instead of the bright and clear pair of onyx eyes I expect, they are dimmed and narrowed [into slits].

I wish she would smile.

I wish I could make her smile.

___

My fingers ache to type out those six words-- and they lived happily ever after. I beam, then yawn. I'm almost done with this mini project. Almost, just almost. My fingers stretch as I crane my neck to look at the clock. A few more minutes. I sigh, anticipating the rush of adrenaline in my tired (but also lively) body and the passion bursting at its seams. I tap the black little keys, and they remind me of the black little buttons on her shirt. I picture myself knocking them off the velvet jacket.

Is it time? I ask anxiously.

It's twelve (exactly!) in the morning and I hope she appreciates the effort.

I cup my cheek and sigh out, "Happy Valentine's Day."

I hope she hears it. I stare at the screen of the computer for a moment, hesitating. Print? Or not to print? I move the mouse around the script, checking for errors (I don't want her to snarl in disgust at any mistakes. I must not burden her with them). The letters are fading, fading. And I see them coming to reality.

 My fingers tangle among her long slender ones. We sit, by the benches in the park. Time flies past and in the end, she grins, a fleeting moment of happiness before she leaves. 

The ending was subdued, partially because I didn't want her to freak out or anything. I tap my fingers against my palm and let the words sink in.

"Yeah, I love you too."


The words spill all over my rationale, masking it for a moment and I giggle (a moment simply isn't enough). I imagine her silky voice capturing the essence (the lust, the desire) of the statement. I imagine the eyelashes fluttering, leaning in...

I blush and shake away the thoughts. (Wrong, so wrong) I hit my cheeks in an attempt to bring me back to my senses. This is insane, this is crazy. This is idiotic.This is stupid. This is blind. This is wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Want, want, want.

Another train of thought parallels my conscience.

"This is Sparta," I grin lazily, mouthing the words she might have said.

Decisively, I press the 'print' button and await the noisy snickering of the printer.
___

Posting the letter in the class tray, I look around furtively, then spot a person walking by. I hide, afraid of being found out. My heart thumps erratically in my chest. Is it her? Is it her? Is it her?

It's her.

She's laughing, her arms locked with another friend. They are intimate, perhaps too close. I sprint away, far, far away from her, even though every fiber of me has been screaming for her. I don't think she saw me. I settle at the corridor outside my class and sigh. Then I frown, standing at the corridor. I can still see her--she's laughing. I wish I could have been the reason the smile would spread on her face, but this is good enough too--at least I see her happy. I'm contented.

And all of a sudden she looks up.

Her eyes are pretty, I decide. Perhaps much more than pretty.

It makes my heart thud with anticipation and self-disgust (I shouldn't be lusting over her-- it just defies everything I've learnt. God, what is this...immoral feeling inside me?). It makes my cheeks flame up and my knees wobble. It makes me want to look away--something so right and yet so wrong. It makes me --literally, and yet so cliched-- hold in my breath. Blunt as it may be, there is no other description for it, because this is the truth. The raw and blistering truth.

Is she staring at me? I stare back. Was that a wrong move? Should I have looked away and pretended to be waving at someone else? I don't smile--should I? What if it gets real awkward when she doesn't smile? What if she thinks I'm a stalker ( I wouldn't really push that possibility away. She's really intelligent.)? What if she starts to hate me?

While all the conflicting thoughts are bursting in my head, I stay cool and continue staring, before tilting my head. She grins, giggles, then waves. I look around. Me? I mouth, pointing at myself.

"Yes, you," she mouths, then chuckles before skipping away.

I stay still for a moment, taking it all in.

Then I collapse to the ground, my hands still holding onto the metal railing tightly.

I must be dreaming. I must be.
___

She's been worried. I can tell. Am I the source of her worry? Were those meticulously typed-out phrases too burdening to her? I tried to tone it down, I tried to--

I didn't do it right, did I?

I screwed up.

My fingers weave into each other and I look down, ashamed. My bow is right by me and I hesitate to pick it up. I peek sideways. She's tuning the viola, her gaze away and a frown apparent on her face. Although she's really gentle and forgiving, I can't help but imagine that she's twisting the life out of the darned author of that letter. I gulp. It must be really bad, really-- really bad.

I'm no writer-- perhaps denial may get me out of this hellhole.

And then--she laughs.

I snap out of my reverie and glance up. She's actually grinning--not in the sick, twisted way of a maniac, she's too much of perfection for that-- and her hand is poised, ready to play the piece. But I can't help staring at her. Her face is flushed with a rosy pink, a few strands of hair frame her lovely heart-shaped face.

(It's an obsession, but I can't help it. A never ending vicious cycle that will continue to taunt me.)

And in reply, I laugh too.

The strings of the violin bow is soft and sleek. I can't help but think that that's how her lush hair might feel like. I pick up my violin and stare at the annotations by my song sheet. Louder, softer, longer. The words blur into my head. All the dots and flags swim around in my vision, only to form two words in front of me.

Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake Up.
WAKE UP.