A Stalker is Always Nearby
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I’m a 24-year-old office worker at an electronics store in Tokyo. One night, after working late for the first time in a while, I returned to my one-room apartment at 9 p.m. I got off the elevator on the third floor, walked down the hallway, and opened my front door. When I turned on the light and saw the room, which was about 10 square meters, I was speechless.
“Ah, not again,” I thought.
There was a single bed by the window across the room, a glass table in the center, an LCD TV and a hairdresser on the wall to my left, and a built-in closet and a small shelf on the right. The room, which had been a mess with clothes and magazines scattered around when I left in the morning, was now neatly tidied up.
On the glass table, food seemed freshly made and steaming hot. Next to it, a piece of paper with “You’re tired. Work is important, but don’t overdo it” written in black marker. I sighed heavily, crumpled the paper, and threw it into the trash can.
Shinya, two years older than me, was overly meticulous and jealous. Just…
