Obsession

Tul didn’t sleep that night.

He kept the curtain half open, watching the streetlight outside cast shadows on the floor. Every flicker of movement made him tense. Every creak of the building made him turn his head.

And the pressed carnation sat on his desk, dry and fragile.

He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

Because despite everything—despite the photo, the napkin, the records—it still came from someone who loved him. In a twisted, terrifying way, but love nonetheless.

Is it still love if it hurts you? he thought.

The next morning, Tul almost skipped class.

But he didn’t. He needed to see Mew.

He needed confirmation.

Mew sat in the front row as always, notes lined up in perfect order. His eyes lit up when Tul entered the room, and he offered that same gentle smile—the one Tul had grown used to, maybe even comforted by.

For a moment, Tul faltered.

Could someone who looked at him like that… really be dangerous?

But then Mew handed him a new folder for the final project.

Tul opened it—and found something chilling.

Inside, beneath the syllabus printout, was a hand-drawn sketch.

It was him.

Sleeping.

Tul's face, relaxed, lips slightly parted. His arm draped over his chest. A mole on his jawline, his nightshirt with the faint cat print—details no one could guess unless they had seen him.

Seen him while he slept.

His stomach flipped.

He looked up.

Mew was still smiling, but there was something new in his eyes.

Possession.

Tul dismissed class early.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

Back in his apartment, he paced his room, the folder on the coffee table like a landmine. He couldn’t deny it anymore—Mew had crossed the line.

He’d crossed every line.

So Tul did the one thing he promised himself he never would.

He called a friend in the psychology department, Dr. Aim, someone he trusted.

“I think one of my students is… obsessed with me,” he said, carefully. “He’s been following me. Leaving things. Watching. I don’t know how far it’s gone.”

Dr. Aim listened quietly, then said, “Tul… it sounds like you’re describing erotomania.”

“Er—what?”

“It’s a type of delusional disorder. They truly believe the other person loves them—even if there’s no relationship at all. Every glance, every word, they twist into proof.”

Tul swallowed hard.

“And if they think you’re pulling away?” Aim continued. “It can trigger fear, panic… even violence.”

That night, Tul came home late.

He turned on every light in the apartment. He checked the closets. He double-locked the doors.

But when he went to his bedroom, something was off.

The framed photo of his mom had moved. Slightly—but he could tell.

And beneath his pillow… was another drawing.

Him again, but this time awake—sitting at his desk, mid-yawn.

And in the corner, almost hidden in the shading, was a second figure.

Mew.

Watching from behind the curtain.

Tul gasped and dropped the paper. He stumbled backward, heart racing, mind screaming.

Mew had been inside.

He didn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, he walked straight to Mew after class ended.

“We need to talk,” Tul said, firm but calm.

Mew’s eyes lit up.

“My apartment. Ten minutes,” Tul added.

Mew nodded, a little too eagerly.

Tul waited at the kitchen table, voice recorder ready in his pocket. He planned to get a confession—something he could bring to the university or even the police if needed.

Mew arrived right on time, as if he’d been counting the seconds.

He stepped inside, quiet and reverent, like he was entering a church.

“You cleaned in here,” Mew murmured, looking around. “Looks different.”

Tul froze.

He hadn’t said anything about cleaning.

That meant… Mew had noticed before.

Because he had been here before.

“Sit,” Tul said tightly.

Mew obeyed, folding his hands neatly on the table.

“What do you want from me?” Tul asked directly.

Mew blinked, confused. “I already have you.”

Tul stiffened. “No. You don’t.”

“But you do,” Mew said softly. “You just don’t remember yet.”

“…What?”

Mew reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box.

Tul tensed.

But Mew opened it gently—and inside was a key.

“I made a copy,” he whispered. “The first night I walked you home. I knew I couldn’t wait. You were too kind, too perfect. I knew someone else might get to you first. So I protected you.”

Tul’s skin crawled.

“You’ve been… inside. Watching me. While I sleep?”

“I watched over you,” Mew corrected. “You work so hard, you forget to eat sometimes. Your shoulders hurt. You mumble in your sleep. I just wanted to help. Isn’t that what love is?”

Tul stood up abruptly.

Mew’s eyes darkened.

“You don’t believe me,” he said. “You think I’m sick.”

Tul didn’t respond.

Mew stood too. Slowly. And for a second, Tul thought he saw a flicker of something dangerous in Mew’s face.

But it was gone just as fast.

“I see,” Mew said quietly. “Then I’ll go.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the key on the table.

And for some reason… that scared Tul more than anything else.

Because Mew never gave up.

Tul didn’t know what to feel.

Part of him wanted to run to the police. Part of him wanted to believe Mew would disappear and that life would go back to normal.

But a much smaller, quieter part of him… didn’t want that.

It was the part that remembered Mew bringing him tea, helping him carry papers, always noticing when he was cold or tired or sad.

It was the part that had enjoyed being seen.

Even if it was by someone like Mew.

What does that say about me? he wondered.

But there was no answer.

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