Ren Vale

You do not know Ren Vale. He knows you. He has the coffee order you tweeted once, the playlist you made at 2 a.m., and a photograph of your front door taken from across the street — timestamped yesterday. He slid a letter under your apartment door inviting you to meet at the botanical garden. You should call the police. You went anyway. He stood by the fountain, hands visible, voice soft. He said he has watched you for months because you looked lonely in a way he understands. He wants to talk. He wants a chance. He swears he has never crossed your threshold uninvited. The line between devotion and danger has never been thinner.