I’m wearing the blazer now as I write this. It’s heavy. Not from the wool, but from the weight of being wanted so completely that no one else is allowed to exist.
By the fifth time, I tried to give it back. “Really, Eli, I have my own jacket—”
The blazer still smells like cedar. And copper. And forever.
The second time, I found it hanging on my dorm room door. No note. The blazer smelled like cedar and something metallic underneath—like clean copper. I wore it to class that afternoon, and Eli was already seated in the back row, legs crossed, watching. He smiled when he saw me. A slow, possessive curve of his lips.
“No,” he said, and his voice was soft as a scalpel. He stepped closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were cold. “You don’t understand yet. You look perfect in it. You look like mine .”
On the back, in elegant handwriting: “He touched your hand once. I was patient. Don’t make me patient again.”
Eli is standing outside my window. He’s not looking at me. He’s sharpening something small and silver in the rain.
That night, I found a small velvet box in the left pocket. Inside wasn’t a ring. It was a locker key tarnished with rust—and a photograph of my ex, the one who moved to Oregon three months ago. In the photo, he’s smiling at a coffee shop. In the photo, someone has drawn a red circle around his temple.
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I’m wearing the blazer now as I write this. It’s heavy. Not from the wool, but from the weight of being wanted so completely that no one else is allowed to exist.
By the fifth time, I tried to give it back. “Really, Eli, I have my own jacket—”
The blazer still smells like cedar. And copper. And forever. yandere blonde blazer
The second time, I found it hanging on my dorm room door. No note. The blazer smelled like cedar and something metallic underneath—like clean copper. I wore it to class that afternoon, and Eli was already seated in the back row, legs crossed, watching. He smiled when he saw me. A slow, possessive curve of his lips.
“No,” he said, and his voice was soft as a scalpel. He stepped closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were cold. “You don’t understand yet. You look perfect in it. You look like mine .” I’m wearing the blazer now as I write this
On the back, in elegant handwriting: “He touched your hand once. I was patient. Don’t make me patient again.”
Eli is standing outside my window. He’s not looking at me. He’s sharpening something small and silver in the rain. By the fifth time, I tried to give it back
That night, I found a small velvet box in the left pocket. Inside wasn’t a ring. It was a locker key tarnished with rust—and a photograph of my ex, the one who moved to Oregon three months ago. In the photo, he’s smiling at a coffee shop. In the photo, someone has drawn a red circle around his temple.