Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: This drabble was written as an entry for Drabble Me This? Contest, but due to some complications, it ended up here for all of you to read. ;) There are 45 chapters in total.

This is beta'd by the fabulous Content1 (I can't thank you enough for all that you've helped me with for this fic. Thank for your time and patience in answering all my questions about Asperger's.) and MalloryKnoxx (You've been with me since my second fic and I truly appreciate your personality and red pen. Also, thank you for taking on this project when you had other, probably more important, things to do, and finishing it in time.) xoxo *squeezes the life outta both of you* ;)


Should I call the cops? I probably should.

That is what any sane, educated person would do when sitting across from your stalker, right?

Yet, I sit there on the 3:28 L train, my hands folded on top of my duffel bag, unwilling to reach inside for my cell phone. Maybe it's because I'm in a public place and I feel safe, or maybe it's that he doesn't really seem dangerous.

If anything, I'd say he's nervous and worried. His left hand seems to be permanently attached to his hair, as he keeps tugging at it—so much that I'm kind of worried he might rip some off—and that would just be a damn shame, because his hair is beautiful. It's thick, luscious, and shiny, and even though it could be called brown, it has honey, caramel, and red highlights that make it radiant. His right hand has been hidden in his pocket the entire time, and his brows have been furrowed together ever since I've noticed him. His mouth keeps moving into odd shapes. It's almost as if he's trying to talk himself into doing something, and I can't help but wonder what that is.

Perhaps I should talk to him? Ask him if he's lost...or something. But he doesn't seem lost, and I can't think of anything to say, so I go back to the novel in my hand that my best friend claims to be "the bomb". Minutes pass, and my station is announced over the intercom. I drop the book into my duffel bag, and walk over to the crowding exit area. He follows. Shit.