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I know you already know our story, but there are two things you aren’t aware of. Guilt is a terrible emotion to carry with you. I need to get this off my chest. And really, I have nothing left to lose.

Smart women love intelligent men. More so than intelligent men love clever women. And that’s where I had something over you from the start.

I’m shrewd, and that drew you in.

How could someone as astute as me have such provocative desires? I was a puzzle you needed to figure out. That’s how it started, anyway. But even that—my intelligence, my puzzle, was a carefully planted piece in our game.

My love was your disease. But diseases are known to kill. You never saw me closing in. You couldn’t see the shadows, hear the footsteps.

I became the heavy burden that you carry. I made you suffer, and for that, I’m sorry. You made me feel an electric fever deep in my soul.

That fever keeps me hostage and that’s my penance to pay for the next five years.

There was a poison hidden in my kiss that you couldn’t taste, a wickedness you couldn’t outrun. Maybe you won’t read this letter. I can’t know if the curiosity of what’s written here will win out.

I can almost picture you tucking a curl behind an ear, debating whether or not to tear open the envelope. I can see the expression on your face. The uncertainty of the choice before you.

Is it worth it? Will it hurt or heal?

Is it right?

I need to confess. I think you need me to confess as well. If I don’t, I’m afraid you’ll overanalyze what we had until it consumes you.

Until it destroys you.

I watched you long before I sat across from you in that room, wallpapered with books and framed degrees.

I was contracted to cover the American Psychiatric Association conference the year you were presented with an award. It was the last freelance journalism job I took.

You glided up the steps of the stage with such grace; I was captivated. The stage spotlight highlighted your cheekbones. Your curls were tucked and pinned away from your face. And I was overcome by a singular, obsessive thought.

I want more.

But you see, what I wanted, I knew I could have. It was just a matter of gaining the right credentials or needs to access you. I know you’ll cringe at my next thought but you’ll also realize I’m right— which will probably piss you off even more.

From the conference, I had your profession and name. A quick internet search on my laptop brought up your office address and phone number. But I didn’t want to waste time parked out front waiting.

The county registry of deeds search informed me, from the convenience of my couch, that you have a mortgage for 382 thousand dollars and the property address.

You’re an intelligent woman. You can guess how easy it was to watch you from that point on.

As you know, stalking isn’t my thing. But you did something to me, intrigued me like no others—so I watched you. I stalked you before ever making an appointment with you. For me—that’s where it all began, but I know for you, it’s a different story.

The masses, in general, are painfully predictable.

People are creatures of habit and routine.

Wake up at the same time every day. Leave home at the same time.

Stop to grab coffee or food, see the same coworkers every day.

Get to work by fill-in-the-blank time. Go for lunch, or eat lunch at the same time.

See or interact with the same people. Leave work and arrive home at a set time, give or take five minutes.

Some people only grocery shop on a certain day every week.

My point isn’t to ramble, it’s to spell out how easy it is to learn someone’s daily activities simply by observing them.

Add in social media and you can almost live their life right alongside them in the shadows.

I can see you posted that you’re at the movies, thus, I know which theater, which movie, and what time you’re seeing it.

Alternatively, this also lets me know you aren’t at home. And since I’ve watched you for months, I know you don’t bother to lock your doors because you have a dog and live in a safe neighborhood.

You never felt my presence, heard me coming.

But I was there taking you in.

I’m rambling again, I know. But there’s a point.

A simple point. It was easy to watch you. Easy to experience your life alongside you before we ever spoke.

I already knew you when we met.

My hands tremble, causing the pages to rustle. Tears brim in my eyes, making the last line blurry. If I read more, I don’t know if I will survive—emotionally.

I could be okay with just the memories that I have.

Could. Such a devious word.

Could is easy.

Could is not action.

Could is no better than a what-if, at best.

But secrets are no better than lies. They can be innocent and sometimes even helpful. Or, they can be insidious and destructive. More often than not, they are the latter.

And the pages I hold may be full of secrets that destroy or validate, but I can’t know which.

One hand balls into a fist.

Self-preservation wins out. I crumple the thick stack of pages and toss them in the wastebasket near the closet door.

Triumphant, I switch the light off and force my eyes closed.