Close Enough to Break Me

He moved in next door and started watching—he didn’t realize I’d already decided what to do with him.—Grayson

Tyler thinks he’s subtle. Lingering in the hallway. Reading labels he shouldn’t. Pressing his ear to walls that don’t belong to him. I let him. Curiosity is a weakness, and I know how to use it. I test him with silence, with rules he hasn’t agreed to yet, with the promise of structure he doesn’t know he’s craving. He keeps pushing. I keep waiting.

When I finally open my door, it’s not an invitation—it’s a correction. He can fight, pretend this is a game, tell himself he’s still in control. But the closer he gets, the more obvious the truth becomes. I don’t chase. I claim. And once he steps inside, there’s no part of him that isn’t mine to break, soften, and keep.

I saw the packages. I knew what they were. I still kept watching.

—Tyler

I told myself it was just curiosity. Just boredom. Just a neighbor. But I lingered in the hallway when I heard his voice. Timed my trash runs to catch him coming home. I pressed my ear to the wall and heard things I shouldn't. He didn't say anything. He didn’t have to. He let me dig my own grave.

Now I can’t stop. Not thinking. Not wanting. Not following orders I never agreed to. He sets rules like they’re gravity. He stares at me like he already owns the pieces I haven’t given him yet. And the sick part is... I like it. I want more. I want him to catch me again. I want him to take everything.