CJ

At first, they were letters stating how cute you were, how much the sender loved how you dressed—usally only a paragraph in length. Signed with a neatly drawn heart next to the sign off of “-Y,” every letter you received gave you a small sense of a glee, even if it was from an anonymous person. You thought you had to be doing something right if you had a secret admirer. Perhaps they had noticed the new self care routine you had recently began.

The acts of affection filled you with such pride you sorted and stored them on a corner of your desk, where they could be seen in the peripheral of your eyes while being terrorized by your schoolwork. They served as a source of confidence, a reminder that, in at least one regard, you were worth something. 

Though you thought about responding in a paper of your own, you figured that it would be a useless endeavor, considering that there was never a return address printed on the envelope, nor on the paper inside. Whoever had sent their praise to you, in an act of extreme dedication, must have hand-delivered every single one to your home. 

You never sat too long in the implications of such a fact.

As quickly as it started, the scale of it all started growing. Instead of one or two letters every week just as before, the count and frequency of them grew exponentially. Tens of pasty white envelopes flooded your mailbox every other day. The length of confessions also grew—the average length of the letters being about three pages, five or six for the ones on the more liberal side. They detailed on and on the routes you took to and from school, what you ate for your meals, who you made conversation with on a particular day—who you made a conscious effort to avoid, how they made the keen observation that you jolted your left shoulder every time you tell a lie from hours of watching you. A frozen breeze wisps down your spine for every instance you read each and every version of someone’s pure obsession.

There was one in particular, one that, to you, was so harrowing and possessive it triggered the impulse to expel the bile churning restlessly threatening to trek upwards in your throat. The words, spread across the elm wood of an endlessly marked desk haunted you. Gazed into you, just as you gazed at it—its presence always being known.

“You know, it never sat right with me that I never see you taking anyone up to that pretty little room of yours, nor you holding anyone’s hand in the hallways. It’s only you, twirling in between the threads of your curtain, pacing for hours. Your face is so, so adorable when you’re like that. There’s nothing in that pretty little head of yours. Certainly no other person occupying it. Any well adjusted person would assume that someone would’ve claimed you already. You are such a beautiful thing, after all. That’s fine, though. That is, that you’re alone. It only means you’re able to be made mine. How I’d love it to be the one able to lay in your bed, for you to be at my beck and call. You wouldn’t need anyone else. Just me. I’d take care of you, wouldn’t you like that? Your perfect skin, your entrancing eyes, none of your perfect features would feel the effect of stress ever again. I’d think for you, carry out all your tasks—that way you can be my cute doll. Alas, knowing you, you would put up a fight. You’ve always been so stubborn. It’s one of the few things that I wish I could change about you. And I think I could change it.  I think your screams would change into something sweeter once you realize how much I love you. –Y ♡︎”

What started off as a sweet gesture had rapidly developed into a scenario preventing you from sleeping at night. Afraid to shut your eyes for fear of your admirer turned borderline stalker slipping into your room, claiming you, just as they had detailed before. 

Claim. You brooded about the word for minutes, it sitting heavier than it would in any other context. They employed it as if you were a cattle animal docilely waiting to be branded, or an object in preparation to change owners.

Your mind became overflowed with conspiracies of who was behind the source of your terror. They would have had to have been someone who had an intimate knowledge of your routine as well as incredibly personal behavioral habits, though the only people who were aware of that information, save for your family, was your best friend, Yunjin.

It seemed absurd; to your knowledge, she had never shown any interest in you in the years time you had known her. Also taking into consideration that Yunjin was most certainly the more fiery type, always speaking her mind no matter what might come afterwards, it was unlike her to do something so roundabout with you. Not to mention that the aforementioned levels of sheer obsession coming from her was entirely inconceivable to you. 

But who else could it possibly be? She was the only person whose knowledge of you could be used to create such detailed admissions of love to you, and whose name aligned with the initial given to sign off every letter. 

In your sleepless state, you decided that, when morning came, you were to slip one of the numerous letters you had received into your bookbag you took to school, and simply ask Yunjin about it. If she wasn’t going to be upfront about her crush—or really, a quite frankly disturbing infatuation with you—you were going to have to be the one who was direct about the matter. 

With the resolve lingering in your head, it was only then you were able to drift into the comfort of sleep.

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Second period arrived slower than usual. Perhaps it was because unlike most days when you were dragging your feet in the hallways on the way to sit in a stiff, plastic chair for an hour while your teacher droned on about American history, you had something intriguing to look forward to. That was, seeing Yunjin and confronting her about the letters that by now, you were certain she had written.

Sitting there waiting for you in her usual spot in the middle of the classroom was none other than the blondheaded girl you were looking for. Her head was down, most likely due to the lack of sleep she received every night from her deciding that tinkering on her producing program late at night was a better use of her time than resting herself. Her back rose and fell slowly, still in her sleepy trance, indicating she had little clue that you had even arrived in class.

You slipped into the seat next to the Korean girl, finally alerting her to your presence. Her head shot up and jerked towards you. A smile spread across Yunjin’s sharp, glowing face.

“You have to stop staying up so late,” you chided. “Your grades have to be slipping at this point. No way you’re managing to pay attention in class enough to pass your tests.”

“Well hello to you too, Y/N,” Yunjin sighed, rubbing her eyes behind her thick-framed glasses. “My grades are doing fine, thank you very much.”

You gave a dismissive scoff as a response. This was simply the nature of you two’s friendship—the banter back and forth.

The sweet thought was quickly soured by your remembrance of the paper resting between your pastel subject folders and stuffed snack bag. It was deeply disturbing to you that it was well in the realm of possibilities that this seemingly sweet girl you had shared significant portions of your life with, whom you had just shared a piece of banter with, was capable of having such distorted thoughts about you. It reframed every interaction with the girl in shadow. Was every graze of fingertips across the hand a discrete attempt for you to be claimed? 

Swallowing your discomfort, you shuffled your bag into your lap and foraged around the interior until your hands felt the rough edges of the letter you had brought to school with you. With your breath becoming much more strained, your hands began to fidget with the edges of the letter, slightly crumpling its roughly textured paper. Doubts began to fill your mind. There was, of course, still the possibility Yunjin was not behind what you held, and you were about to accuse your best friend of something completely ridiculous. Afterwards, the air would most certainly become awkward, and there would be no telling of when it would return to normal. Though, if you never said anything, and Yunjin was behind the letters, she would most likely continue with her antics. Ramp them up, even.

You opted to take the risk.

Your mouth, running dry from nerves, began to form a sentence. The words left deliberately slow. “Hey, Yunjin, I need to ask you about someth—“ 

Abruptly, the sound of your insufferable American history teacher’s voice filled the room, cutting you off. “Alright everyone. Good morning. Let’s start today with chapter three of our third unit…”

Yunjin only shrugged her shoulders at you, communicating a silent “tell me later.” 

The man in front of the class only ceased talking when he motioned to hand out a worksheet on his prior lector. Like she always did, Yunjin began frantically scribing her name at the top left of her paper. Her name sat in the form of messy cursive. 

In a sudden afflatus, you discreetly took the letter out from your bag and darted your eyes to and fro the words on the letter you held and Yunjin’s name on her paper. Compared to the neatly formatted, typewriter-like script on the letter, the girl next to you’s handwriting was nothing alike to that of what you held. It couldn’t possibly be her. To switch between two starkly different fonts required a level of patience and keenness, a level that, to the Yujin you knew, did not have.

Stumped, you found yourself drifting in an inbetween space of sorts, half focused on the assignment in front of you while the other part of your mind sat in the gloom of remaining to not understand who could possibly be sending any of these letters. If not Yunjin, who else?

Aside from her, no one from any of your classes knew you particularly well, nor did anyone go out of their way to interact with you outside the occasional group project. Your obsessor would have to been infatuated enough to watch you constantly, know all the inner workings of your life, all without ever coming in direct contact with you. Sweat began to bead on your neck.

A voice cut through your thoughts. 

“Um, Mister J? I have a question about number five,” called a soft voice from the back of the room. You craned your neck to identify the classmate who spoke. 

It was a hooded girl nestled in the back corner of the classroom. Slender fingers fidgeted with a black-inked pen. Her main features were obscured from the shadow the hood casted, leaving only a pair of piercing eyes. They were looking in your direction. Gazing at the clock, surely.

As your teacher made his way towards her to assist, you racked your brian to possibly remember the name of the veiled girl. In the moment, you regretted not paying much attention to class introductions at the beginning of the semester. 

The name of her could’ve been Eunchae, Lily—was it Lily? No, it couldn’t be. Zuha, maybe. The name simply refused to come to you. It was unlikely you even retained her name, let alone learned it at all. Really, you never paid much care to anyone in your second period other than Yunjin—due in part to the fact that she was the only one that could match your energy most days. Perhaps Yujin was aware of her name from one of her many failed friend making endeavors.

As if the thought of her brought her to you, the Korean girl next to you lowered her mouth next to your ear, speaking softly into your eardrum. “Were you going to ask me something just then?” Involuntarily, the sensation of the breeze spread a slight blush across your cheeks. It was then followed by a wave of embarrassment. 

“No, um,” you stumbled out. Internally, you were scolding yourself for allowing yourself to get so flustered. Not that you were embarrassed about being flustered by her in the first place—Yunjin was certainly attractive, and you certainly wouldn’t be upset if she had turned out to be the one harassing your mailbox, even if it was to your parents’ dismay. She would have to abandon the neurotic, monomaniacal language, though. “It’s nothing. I was…going to ask you if you could help me with my chemistry homework. Yeah.” It wasn’t the most immaculate excuse, but a passable one, nonetheless.

“Couldn’t figure it out yourself, huh?” she teased. An accordingly teasing chuckle left her. “Of course I can, just call me when you get home.”

As second period neared its end, your horribly talkative instructor brought the group together to assess any questions about the work he had previously handed out. He stood in the front of the classroom, gaze screening the petrified faces of his students who silently prayed that their names were not called upon. Looking over the back, then front rows, his eyes showed an unsatisfied glare. It was only then that he browsed the middle section of the class, moving past the person four seats from you, then three, then a smirking Yunjin, finally on to you.

Heat began to rise in your body. It was unlike the pleasant sensation you received from Yunjin.

“Y/N, please tell us your answer to number one.”

“Excuse me?” you replied absentmindedly. Your blondheaded friend began to snicker, sparking the rest of the class to follow suit. Your fingers began to twitch in irritation.

“Number one. The answer?” he stated again. A frown spread on his face.

You looked down at your own worksheet to the first question: “when was the North Atlantic Treaty signed?” Though the question sat at the top of the page, it was left unanswered by you. An unshakeable habit of skipping around the questions of your assignments governed you, and this assignment was no different. If you had known you were to be subjected to mass humiliation, you would’ve completed your paper the orthodox way. Though, it was too late for that now.

“‘When was the North Atlantic Treaty signed,’” you repeated back, as if the answer was buried within the question. Really, the answer was buried in the past lecture. “Nineteen. Nineteen–seventy–two,” you  unconfidently estimated. Yunjin began practically falling apart next to you in laughter, though nothing about this terribly dragreading situation you found yourself in was in any shape or form warranting such a reaction. 

The man sat in silence for a moment, face indicating that he was less than assumed by your answer. “Anyone else?” He asked, prompting for a brighter student to fix your mistake. “Seriosuly, this was one of first things I covered.”

“Nineteen–fourty–nine,”a voice faintly blurted. Turning around to identify the source of the voice, you quickly realized it was the same hooded girl you had observed earlier. You quietly thought to yourself she must be the type to derive satisfaction from correcting people in class, though you would never dare to share the thought with anyone, save for Yunjin.

“Yes, thank you, Yoonchae,” thanked the man in an exasperated manner. Yoonchae, yes. That was her name. It seemed obvious to you then, hearing it from another’s mouth. Had you made contact with her before? If you had, it was in the distant past.

If what state you were in before did not constitute disassociation, the state you were in after your mortification certainly was. You spent the rest of the period sitting uncomfortably in your body, muscles tense. You wished for nothing other than for the world to spontaneously explode.

After an eternity in your mind, a deafening bell rang, denoting the end of second period. Without any extensive thought, you returned all your supplies into your bag, bolting out the door into the hallway.

Even after the mocking stares had died down, a fresh, burning wound from observing eyes lingered on the back of your neck.

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The sound of crunching gravel sounded underneath your feet for every step you took. The ground below you had been tread by the same pair of shoes for years—you had made a habit of taking the same path to your home everyday after school, deciding it was the fastest, and safest, path without putting much inquiry into others. 

And, thankfully, you never needed to find another path; not once had there been an incident. Well, not to your knowledge.

As you walked along the unsealed road, lined with patches of towering oak trees, shrubbery, and discarded tires, you observed the afternoon sun. The weight of your hefty bag—which still held the chemistry sheet you were in desperate need of help with, accompanied by the folded letter—served as a force preventing you from looking directly in the path of the sun, as well as rendering your steps to land much heavier than they would normally. The sound of weighted steps resonated into the ground below you.

If you managed to endure the struggle, you reckoned you would be able to make it back to your room in no more than fifteen minutes. 

Despite the sun hanging less than directly overhead, the heat it exuded matched that of a midday sun. Sweat beaded on the nape of your neck, then dripped down the path of your spine. Your breath became labored and stilted, weakening the functions of your two legs. Your body ached for a rest. 

Giving into your internal demands, you gradually slowed your pace, eventually ceasing your steps to rest in a single place in the middle of the road. By virtue of the rush of blood blooming around the body, your senses became heightened—your hearing much more keen. Hark to the sounds of your breath moving in tandem with the rising and falling of your chest, the branches of the nearby trees dancing to the breeze, sparrows singing their song in the clutches of surrounding trees.

The sound of light echoing footsteps behind you.

With a sharp twist of the neck, you assessed the scene behind you, eyes dilated in fear. Stillness, nothing except the waving shadows of the looming trees lingering on the side of the path dwelled behind. 

A stark exhale left your mouth. The sound must have been a trick of the wind, yes. Or perhaps a startled animal. Deer were quite common in the surrounding area. No one but you took this way at this time of day. The isolation was a key reason you had even chosen it in particular.

With your mind settling on the conclusion the startle was simply the result of your head succumbing to the heat, you steadied your breath and continued your trek onwards.

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“Woah, you’re like, really bad at chemistry,” laughed Yunjin, speaking on full volume through your phone, sitting off to the side of your desk while you contemplated the answer of a thermochemistry question for the third time in a row. A slim, silver pen danced between your fingers while you thought,  which was briefly interrupted occasionally by a comment by Yunjin. “You’re sure it’s not only history you doze off during?”

You taped the head of your utensil on the surface of the desk in annoyance. You had called your friend to receive help, not be taunted. You had already experienced quite enough of it the same day. “Look, if you’re not going to help, I can just hang up and ask Google for the answers,” you muttered lowly.

“Fine,” she dragged out, in a playfully exaggerated manner. “I’ll help. I got an A in that class, anyways.”

Without much thought, you found your gaze drifting across your desk. The pile of endless letters still sat there, all either kept neatly in the envelope they arrived in or paperclipped together. Nerves began to alight within you.

“Hey Yunjin,” you began slowly, attempting to ease into the topic. 

“Hm? You need help again? God, you’re so need—”

“No, I fucking don’t—” Not allowing your anger to guide you away from the urgent matter on your mind, you cut yourself off. You inhaled steadily. “Yunjin, is there anyone from school, I mean anyone, who could possibly have a crush on me?”

The line went silent for a movement, as if she had entirely vanished. Only a moment later could the light sound of a pointed exhale through the nasal. “I’m sorry, say that again?” The words came out dazed, almost ghostly.

“Does anyone at school like me?” You inquired again, this time enunciating your words in order to be clearer. “If you don’t know, that’s fine. I just need to figure something out.” 

“Figure out what? You don’t…”

“Okay, so, I don’t appreciate you being weird about this, because I actually need your help.” Once again, your eyes met the place of where the letters mocked you, teasing you with the mystery of who could possibly be the author. “I’ve been getting these letters for weeks now. Love letters, though, they’re quite obsessive. They talk about me like I’m some sort of…animal.”

“I haven’t written you any letters.”

“I never suggested you did.”

An uncomfortable, pungent silence sat between you. Small ruffles of Yunjin's sheets could be heard on the other end—perhaps she had taken the question as an accusation. 

“Y/N, I um, don’t know who you could be referring to, and I don’t know anything about any letters. But, I have something to tell you—”

The distant creak of a metal hinge stirring screeched in your ear, prompting you to dart your head to your door across the room. Its hinges remained untouched, your door in the same closed position as you had left it before. 

Over the phone, the faint sound of a startled Yunjin brought your attention to the call once again.

“어머니, 당신이세요?” (Mother, is that you?)

“당신은 내가 어디 사는지 어떻게 알아요? 나가—” (How do you know where I live? Get out of my—)

A repetitive tone of a disconnected call filled your room. Yunjin was with you, and then she was not, with her being cut off midsentence. Dread filled your stomach.

Frantically, you began drafting a check in message to your friend in hopes she would inform you that she was safe, and you could put your worry to rest. You could blame it on the poor internet, that way.

“Hey, are you okay? You sounded frightened before the call cut out. Just text me back when you see this”

Three dots appeared.

“I don’t think Yunjin is in a state to answer right now. It's a bit hard to type without being conscious. It’s okay to be speechless. I know you struggle thinking on your feet. See you soon, Y/N.  –Y ♡︎

No, no, this isn’t real. Yunjin, she…

Your thoughts swirled in a whirlpool in your head. Somehow, and for some inexplicable reason, “Y” had managed to track Yunjin back to her own home and harmed her in whatever way. There was no telling what could’ve been done to her, and knowing their erratic nature, there was the possibility for it to be severe.

Panicked, you ran into your open closet, slamming the doors behind you. Collapsing and sliding down the wall into a position where your knees were pressed to your chest, you lost yourself. It was all too painfully real. It had left the confines of simply yourself—instead, it had spread to the person closest to you.

You shut your eyes hoping the ensuing void would protect you from kwhatever—whoever—came for you.

A deafening thud sounded from your window, followed by a heftier, stronger one. You clenched your muscles in anticipation.

The shatter of glass elicited the shatter of your resolve. Tears began to flow down your cheeks.

A set of footsteps landed on your carpet. The same sound you had heard on your way home.

“Come on, I know you’re in here. No use in hiding.”

The creek in the floor approached the closet. Your time was quickly running out.

A hand reached out, slowly opening the barrier between you and them.

You stared at them, eyes filled with confusion and disbelief.

Yoonchae stared back at you.

Blond hair shone in the light emitted from your desk lamp. Her eyes were that of a predator, observing its prey before a strike.

In one hand, she held a threatening finely tipped blade.

“Please,” you meekly whisper out. “Please, please, you don’t have to do this.”

She only stepped forward, and in a blur of movement, sharp pain radiated on the left side of your torso. Overwhelmed, your vision began to ebb, and your flesh began to relax from exhaustion.

“Aw, look at you. Not too much a struggle.”

The snarl came closer, and given the final word:

“I guess you were begging to be claimed.”