SPOILER ALERTS AND CONTENT WARNINGS!
Stalking, Murder
Dear Robert,
Do you remember how we first met?
I think of it more often than I should. The air was cold that day, yet I felt inexplicably warm, almost as if some part of me already knew you. You said something ordinary; I can’t even recall the words. What I remember is the way you looked at me, as though you recognized me from a place I’d long forgotten. Sometimes I wonder if we hadn’t known each other long before that moment—before memory, even. Ridiculous, isn’t it? And yet, it doesn’t feel ridiculous at all.
Your photograph sits on my desk, still glossy despite how often I handle it. I remember how thrilled I was when it arrived, tucked inside that stiff envelope with your signature scrawled across the corner. They must receive thousands of requests, yet somehow mine reached you. I knew then you understood that I wasn’t like the others. I sometimes wonder how long it took you to choose that photograph before sending it. You look thoughtful in it, almost serious, as though you knew who would eventually receive it.
I trace the outline of your face. The girls at work notice. I hear their snickers when they think I’m not listening. They whisper, “How could someone like him end up with a girl like her?”
My coworker Jennifer is particularly nasty. She’s pregnant now—a miracle, if you ask me. I can’t fathom anyone feeling even a flicker of desire for that troll she calls a husband. She parades her belly around the office like a trophy, forever rubbing it as though polishing her prize. The others coo and flutter around her like she’s the Virgin Mother. It’s nauseating. Her baby shower is next week. The invitation appeared on my desk this morning.
She arrived at an… inconvenient moment. I was kissing your photograph. She stared. I told her it brings me luck. Her eyebrows lifted, tight with contempt, before she turned away.
They don’t understand. They never will. They’ve never known a love like ours—never felt inevitability.
It’s been quiet since your last letter. I check the mail each morning, and again at lunch, and once more before bed, just in case something arrives late. I’ve started leaving the porch light on so the postman won’t miss me.
I know you’ll write soon, darling. I can feel it.
With all my love forever and ever.
Dear Robert,
I realized today that memory is unreliable. Everyone insists our first meeting lasted only a moment, but I know better. Moments stretch when they matter. I remember details no one else could recall—the faint crease beside your mouth when you smiled, the way your fingers tapped against your cup as though impatient to speak privately.
I searched for you online when I got home. Just curiosity at first. Interviews, photographs, and old appearances I must have missed before. It felt strange watching you speak to crowds who didn’t truly know you. They laughed at the wrong moments. They asked shallow questions. Still, every so often, your expression shifted, as if exhaustion slipped through the performance.
That’s when you looked real.
I replayed those moments again and again. There’s comfort in recognizing someone beneath the noise. I think you must feel lonely sometimes, surrounded by people who only want pieces of you. Fame seems terribly isolating.
I understand isolation. Perhaps that’s why we recognized each other so quickly.
The mail hasn’t come yet today, but I feel certain something is on its way. I keep imagining your handwriting: careful, deliberate. Personal.
Some connections don’t require explanation. They simply exist.
With all my love forever and ever.
Dear Robert,
I watched your interview again tonight. The late-night one where the host kept interrupting you. You laughed politely, but afterward your expression changed—just for a second. You looked straight into the camera. Not at them. At me.
Most people wouldn’t notice something like that. They see performances everywhere, rehearsed smiles and practiced charm. But I know when you’re speaking honestly. I replayed the moment three times to be certain. The way your voice softened when you spoke about loneliness—it felt private, almost secret.
I think you were reassuring me. Letting me know that distance doesn’t matter.
I’ve begun timing the mail now. The carrier comes at 10:17 most mornings, though sometimes later on Tuesdays. I’ve begun waking earlier so I won’t miss the delivery. The postman’s truck makes a particular rattling sound when it turns onto the street, and now I recognize it instantly. Once, when he passed without stopping, I followed him halfway down the block just to be certain he hadn’t overlooked my house. He assured me nothing had arrived, though his smile suggested confusion.
It’s difficult to explain anticipation to people who have never waited for something meant especially for them.
Sometimes I imagine them delayed somewhere—stacked in a forgotten bin, waiting patiently to reach me. It comforts me to think you’ve written more than once.
Write again soon. The silence makes people invent doubts, and doubt has never belonged between us.
With all my love forever and ever.
Dear Robert,
How are you, my love?
Why haven’t you written back yet? I’m anxious to hear from you. My nights have been restless. Every dream is haunted by you, your face, your voice, your laughter. My heart beats so violently with excitement that I can hardly close my eyes. I toss and turn, waiting for the next moment I might see you again.
Jennifer’s baby shower was this past weekend. I hadn’t planned on going, but at the last moment I found myself driving there anyway. I arrived a little late, only because I stopped at a store to find a gift. She’s having a boy, apparently. I stood in the baby aisle, surrounded by bland pastels and stuffed animals with vacant, stitched-on smiles. What does one even buy for something so small and unformed?
You should’ve seen me, Robert, drifting through those aisles. I imagined you beside me, laughing quietly as we judged the ridiculous toys together. The thought made everything warmer.
In the end, I left without buying anything. But across the parking lot sat a hunting store. I don’t know what compelled me to enter. And that’s where I found the perfect gift: a small taxidermied cat, beautifully preserved, with a bonnet tied beneath its chin. Its glass eyes shone wonderfully beneath the lights. Something unique. Something memorable. Something a child could love.
All she did was cry. Her gargoyle husband grabbed my elbow and forced me toward the door. His touch lingered afterward, contaminating. I scrubbed my arm raw when I got home.
If you’d been there, none of that would have happened. You would have defended me, wouldn’t you, my love? You understand beauty when others recoil from it.
With all my love forever and ever.
Dear Robert,
I’m still anxiously waiting to hear from you, my love. The silence feels heavier each day, but I know you must have your reasons. You’re thoughtful like that, always considering the right moment, the perfect timing. I can be patient for you. I am patient for you.
Perhaps we should see each other in person. Arizona isn’t far from California. Six hours, give or take. I could drive. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere ours. I know how demanding your schedule can be, how people cling to you and drain your time. I wouldn’t take much.
I desperately need an escape. The office has grown cold since the baby shower. People whisper now. I remember when you told the story of going to Bali and learned about the power of forgiveness from the monks. Even though I hate Jennifer to my core, you inspired me to apologize. I approached Jennifer gently, offering peace. She cried again—refusing forgiveness as though I were the offender.
I only apologized because I knew you would want me to.
Tell me, my love… are you proud of me?
With all my love forever and ever.
Dear Robert,
I waited as long as I could. You haven’t written back. Not once.
The girls at work keep showing me photographs of you with her, your co-star with the perfect smile. As if I could believe it. They don’t study you the way I do. I know when you’re performing.
Secrets rot relationships from the inside. I won’t allow that to happen to us.
So I am coming to you. Quietly. Carefully. By the time this reaches you, I will already be on my way.
I mapped the route twice already. The highways feel strangely symbolic: long, uninterrupted stretches leading exactly where they’re meant to. I imagined the moment you’d open the door—surprise first, then recognition settling slowly across your face as memory returned. People forget important things when they’re overwhelmed. Fame must do that to a person.
I packed lightly. Only what feels necessary: a change of clothes, toiletries, and your photograph wrapped carefully in a scarf so it wouldn’t bend during the drive. I thought you might like to see how well I’ve cared for it. Proof matters sometimes. Tangible things help people remember truths they’ve tried to ignore.
The closer I imagine getting to you, the calmer I feel as though everything difficult has only been a temporary separation before the real beginning.
With all my love forever and ever.
Why did you make me do this?
I stood outside your house for hours. I didn’t feel the cold. The night pressed damply against my skin, but anticipation kept me warm. I practiced what I would say over and over so the first words you heard would be beautiful, something worthy of the moment we had waited so long to reach.
But you didn’t come home alone.
You walked up the path with her. Laughing. The sound carried through the dark. Your shoulder brushed hers as you searched for your keys.
I called your name.
You turned, and for a brief, perfect instant, I expected recognition to bloom across your face. Instead, confusion settled there. When I touched your sleeve, you recoiled as if I burned you. How could you not know me, Robert? It’s me.
Time behaved strangely then. Your porch light hummed overhead, flickering in uneven pulses, and for a moment I wondered if you noticed it too—if this was another silent message between us.
You kept looking toward her, not me, and I realized how frightened she seemed. Her hand clutched your arm possessively. It confused me. Why fear devotion? Why cling so tightly when she could never understand you the way I did?
I tried to explain with my eyes. Tried to remind you of everything unspoken between us, the letters, the waiting, the certainty that had guided me here. My heart pounded so loudly I thought surely you could hear it. Surely, you recognize its rhythm as something belonging to you.
You took another step back. Then another.
Each movement felt deliberate, rehearsed, as though you were pretending not to know me for her sake. Protecting appearances. Testing me. The realization settled gently, almost kindly: you were waiting for proof. Waiting for me to show you how real this was.
Love sometimes requires decisive action. Grand gestures. Proof that cannot be ignored or dismissed by outsiders who misunderstand.
The sound shattered everything.
Birds burst from somewhere nearby. The echo rolled down the street and vanished into silence. You stared at me, not with recognition, not even anger, but shock, as though the truth had arrived too suddenly to comprehend. Then you fell.
Her screaming came from very far away, thin and distorted, like noise traveling through water. I stared at my hand, unable to understand how something meant for devotion could create such ruin. Smoke curled faintly in the air between us.
I never wanted this ending. I only wanted us.
But maybe this is better. No more distance. No more silence. No more people standing between us, whispering doubts or pulling you away before you could remember.
Now you finally understand the lengths I’ll go for love.
With all my love forev—
Gabriella Giambanco is a first-year fellow in Neonatal–Perinatal Medicine at UT Houston. Her nonfiction and opinion writing has appeared in Bustle, Bust Magazine, Clash Magazine, Outlook Springs, Thought Catalog, Hobart, and The Tunnels.
Leave a Reply