Confessions Of A Stalker

I don’t knock.

That would make me visible.

I move along the outside first, staying where the light thins and the structure breaks into narrow sightlines—slits, gaps, strange partial views that feel accidental but aren’t. I know where to stand to see without being seen.

I lean in.

There he is.

Breathing.

Deep. Steady. Unaware. I count it without realizing I’ve started. In. Out. In. Out. My own breath falls into step with his like I’ve synced myself to him on purpose.

He shifts.

I freeze completely. Muscles locked. Balance held in places that burn quickly. Ten seconds pass. Then twenty. Then more.

He settles.

I move again.

From another angle, I catch him waking. That slow return to consciousness. The pause where the world hasn’t loaded yet. I adjust my position by inches to keep him centered.

He eats like he’s alone.

Which is wild, considering.

Each movement feels deliberate. Thoughtful. He pauses mid-motion sometimes, staring off like he’s processing things I don’t have access to. I don’t interrupt. I document.

Then—suddenly—everything changes.

He launches into motion.

Fast. Erratic. Unpredictable. He moves in sharp bursts—stops, pivots, accelerates again without warning. Crosses the space in seconds. Hits one boundary and reverses instantly like the laws of physics were negotiable. He loops. Doubles back. Vanishes from one angle and reappears in another like I’m lagging behind real time.

I track him from position to position, adjusting constantly to keep visual contact. My body stays low. My movements stay measured. I refuse to lose sight.

Eventually, the energy drains.

He slows.

He drinks.

Exposed. Careless. I lower myself closer for the angle. I wait until his focus slips. I document every second of it.

He disappears into a more private area.

I wait.

This part requires restraint. You can’t arrive too soon. You can’t risk missing it either. I pass once like I’m uninterested. I double back when instinct says the moment is right.

Then I lean in.

I see far more than I should.

I don’t move. I don’t blink. I document everything.

Later, everything quiets again.

This is the moment I always return for.

I find the original angle—the one where breathing is all there is. He’s curled in now, still, defenseless in a way only sleep allows. Tiny movements ripple through him without waking him. I lower myself until the view is perfect.

I watch him breathe.

And while he dreams, I imagine our future.

Where we’ll be.

How close we’ll remain.

How he will never truly understand the depth of what I feel—but will live inside the results of it every day.

Tomorrow, he will wake with no memory of me.

No awareness of the watching.

No knowledge of the waiting.

No idea that his entire existence is being archived with quiet, relentless devotion.

Because he isn’t some man.

He isn’t some stranger.

He isn’t even human.

He is my rat.

And right now he’s asleep inside his cardboard box in his enclosure, tiny chest rising and falling, completely unaware that I spent the entire day crouched on the floor like an unhinged cryptid with a smartphone—watching him eat, drink, run, jump, poop, sleep, exist—and absolutely losing my mind over how deeply obsessed I am with his perfect, squishy little life.

In dedication to my best friend, and heart rat, Chopper

#choppertherat #adoptarat #ahoperats