I'm addicted to my stalker.

He watches me at night, sneaking in through my living room window and making my blood turn to ice. I feel him all around me as chills snake down my spine. Each night he becomes bolder, getting closer and welcoming himself into my bedroom, feeding his addiction.

When I feel the warmth of his skin brushing over mine, I pretend to sleep, terrified of what he plans to do with me. But when he touches me . . . my whole body comes alive.

I've never seen his face, and don't even know his name, but I want to. Every part of me knows this is wrong, but I can't bring myself to lock the window, to tell him no.

He thrills me, but living life on the edge doesn't come without consequences.

He's sick in the head, addicted to this infatuation, and obsessed with his messed-up mind games. But maybe I'm just as sick as he is because, whether I like it or not . . . I'm addicted to my stalker.