Innocence is a curious concept. I clung to it like a prized possession, but I couldn't fathom ever wanting it back once it was gone. During my innocent days, I was shy, fearful, unwilling, and, to be honest, quite dull. It felt like a shackle that prevented me from truly embracing life.
In my eyes, every man was the boogeyman, and ironically, it took an actual monster to reveal the truest version of me. I know that sounds ridiculous, but believe me, the story only becomes more unbelievable from here. So, if you're interested in reading it, here's the strangest and longest relationship I've ever experienced: just me and my stalker.
The summer between high school and college started like the rest. I hung out with my friends, danced at the studio, and sat around with my family. Day in and day out, those were my only activities, and I'll tell you now: there was not a boy or man associated with any of those.
My mother raised me religiously and prudishly, which does not bode well for me. I also was an awkward girl for many years, between eight and seventeen, to be exact. At eighteen, I still had the build of a petite boy, but I was making it work. My friends taught me how to dress more flatteringly for my body, and I got my long brown hair looked at by an actual professional. I might not have found sexy or hot, but I think I started to pull off a decent cute, even pretty in the right light.
Socially, I might have been more of a trainwreck than I was in all those prior years combined. I stuttered and stared my way through parties; public pools made me want to shrivel away, even in my best bikinis. College was only a few months away, and not even the boys in my dreams bothered to talk to me anymore.
Then, like a message sent down from heaven, or maybe up from hell. I got a mystery text that changed my life forever.
Mystery: You looked so cute today. You should wear things like that more often.
Me: Who is this? Lizzy?
Mystery: Call me a secret admirer. Stop being afraid to show off. So many would love to see it.
He followed the texts up with a couple of pics. There were pictures of girls in tank tops, crop tops, and skirts. The last one was a picture of me in the baggy shirt and shorts I had been wearing that day, smiling as I talked with a friend.
Me: Who are you?!?! Were you following me?
I never got another response that night. Like anyone in my situation, I went through a rollercoaster of emotions. Pacing around my room, fear plummeted to panic, then ascended to intrigue, followed by a loopy loop back to panic. Then I remember smiling. The picture of me was cute, and he caught my genuine smile. I felt seen and, well, wanted.
The following day, I thought about the mystery texts all morning. It should have been because I was thinking about how to tell my mother. That would have made too much sense. No, I thought about the texts as I dug in my closet for shirts I bought and hung, never to wear. The ones that were tighter than the others, smaller.
Digging even deeper were skirts from when I was a few inches shorter. Currently, they resembled those of the more popular girls at my school, at least the ones boys bothered to talk to. If my years in dance had done anything for me, it was to give me a half-decent ass. Admiring it in the mirror as I tried on outfit after outfit that I'd never wear out of my room.
I eventually gave up and put on another baggy T-shirt and shorts, like every day before. I hung out with a couple of friends, went to dance, and watched a movie with my mom. The only difference about this day was that I spent most of my time distracted: looking for someone who might be taking my picture, and checking my phone to see if I had a new mystery message. I must have typed 30 messages during the movie and erased each one. How desperate was I to be looked at? Finally, before going to bed, I texted goodnight.
I woke up to 1 unread message. The name was clear, "Mystery Man?".
Mystery: Good morning, beautiful. Did you miss me?
Me: I just want to know who you are! Please!!!
Mystery: Answer the question, cutie.
Me: Fine, maybe, yeah.
Mystery: Good girl. What are you going to wear today? You didn't take my advice yesterday.
Me: Where did you see me? Did you go to my school? Is this a joke or something? It's dumb if it is.
Mystery: I'll answer three questions after seeing what you are wearing today. I hope to talk soon.
Me: I'm not sending you a pic if I don't know who you are!
Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. I started pacing around my room, looked at myself in the mirror, then flopped on my bed in frustration. Why did I care? There was no good answer to the question of who he or I guess they were. A kid from school fucking with me? A stranger spying on me? My friends pranking me? I needed to block the number and go on with my life.
Me: I'm not playing anymore. See ya. Blocked.
I took a deep breath and fell into my old clothes and routine again. My new problem was that the Mystery Man had become a part of my routine. Anytime we left someone's house, I'd start recording everyone around me. Gave death stares to people who had a phone facing my direction. Had I become the freak? This mind game was working, and it pissed me off.
Only two days had passed since the "Great Block" of his number. I woke up so frustrated. I remember having a real fuck it moment. Putting on the one shirt I owned that didn't cover my belly and a skirt my mother would have burned me in, I took the picture. I unblocked his number.
Me: (Send)
He didn't make me wait. Three little dots within seconds.
Mystery: That's what you are going to wear today, beautiful?
Me: Sure...
Mystery: Don't lie to me. You know I'll know.
Me: Fine, no, I'm not. I figured that's the pic you wanted of me for the answers.
Mystery: You don't listen very well, do you? I asked to see what you were going to wear for me today.
Me: It's not for you. I'll wear what I wear. I sent a pic. You have to answer three questions.
Mystery: It is for me. I see you. They don't. Don't be rude.
I was being chastised by some pervert who followed me on the street.
Mystery: Fine, the picture will work if you walk outside in it. You can go to your backyard. It's fenced.
Me: I can't walk past my mom in this. Plus, how would you know I did it?
Mystery: We both know your mom is not home. It is up to you. See you soon.
I threw my phone on the bed, realizing I was home alone and talking to a random person who also, somehow, knew that.
Now did I have a stalker or a really fucked up friend? Or a really fucked up stalker friend?
"What am I doing?" I said out loud as my feet continued to walk down the stairs and out the backdoor. I did not even stop to look out the window in case a bearman was outside waiting to eat me.
I stepped out into the sun and cool breeze. The two touched my bare skin like inviting hands. I felt so free. Not a moment later, another vibration in my hand.
Mystery: Thank you. You are stunning, Eva.
There was no one in sight--not a soul. How was he doing this? It felt like he was right next to me, but he was never around--everywhere and nowhere. Was I in danger?
Walking back inside, I could feel the smile on my face. At least I would die happy, maybe?
Me: Thank you. Can I ask my questions?
Mystery: You were a good girl. You may.
The first time he called me that, it felt creepy. Now, the approval felt warm. I could feel butterflies in my stomach, thinking about how to word the questions. There was no chance he would give me his name. Would he ignore the question or burn one of my three?
Me: Do I know you?
That was a dumb one.
Mystery: Only through messages.
