I never cared for romance—it always felt like something from movies, not real life. But then, the gifts started arriving: flowers, chocolates, books I wanted. No name, no clues—just a secret admirer who knew too much. Someone was watching me.
I’d never understood the obsession with romantic gestures. They always seemed unrealistic. Yet, one day, I arrived at work to find a massive bouquet with a note: “Your smile brightens my days.”
“Did anyone see who left this?” I asked. Robert, my favorite coworker, said no one had. Brian, my least favorite, made a sarcastic remark, and Robert defended me.
Though the gifts were sweet at first, they soon felt unsettling. How did this person know so much about me? I wasn’t flattered, I was scared.
One day, Robert commented, “You must be happy to have a secret admirer.” I told him it freaked me out. Brian overheard and smirked, suggesting it might be a psycho.