MY BOYFRIEND HAD OLD POLAROID PHOTOS OF ME BEFORE WE EVEN MET
I pulled the dusty box from the back of his closet and heard the loose photos slide inside. The air inside smelled like stale attic dust, a thick, dry smell that caught in my throat instantly. My fingers brushed against the smooth, waxy edges of old polaroids tucked beneath some folded clothes I’d never seen him wear. Expecting pictures of awkward family holidays or college friends, I lifted out a stack.
Dozens of photos stared back at me, all faded and slightly curled at the edges. They were all of me – walking my dog in the park, waiting for a bus downtown, buying coffee at my usual cafe. My stomach plummeted, a cold, heavy stone dropping inside me as I shuffled through the images, each one a silent invasion of moments I thought were private.
Just as the full, sickening realization hit me, he walked in, stopping dead in the doorway. “What… what are these?” I stammered, my voice shaking as I held up the stack of photos like evidence. His face went utterly white, the blood draining from his cheeks like pulled curtains, leaving him looking like a ghost I didn’t recognize.
He didn’t answer, just stared at the small, waxy photos in my trembling hand, his eyes wide with something I couldn’t quite read – fear? Guilt? The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, making my head spin in the sudden lack of oxygen. I noticed the date stamp on one corner, small and grey, barely visible in the dim light.
“You’ve been watching me?” I finally choked out, the whisper barely audible in the heavy air. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, avoiding my gaze like a cornered animal. “It’s not what you think,” he mumbled, but the chilling timeline laid out in my hands told a story he couldn’t possibly explain away with a simple lie.
One picture had a date on the back — it was from three months before we ‘accidentally’ met.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*”Then what is it?” I demanded, my voice rising, the tremor now laced with fury. “Tell me what this is! Why do you have these? Were you… stalking me?”
He flinched at the word, but his silence was an admission in itself. He finally found his voice, a shaky, desperate plea. “Look, I know it looks bad, really bad. But please, just let me explain.” He stepped closer, his hand outstretched, but I recoiled, clutching the photos tighter.
“Explain what? How you meticulously documented my life before you even knew me? How you invaded my privacy, made me feel like I was living in a goddamn horror movie?” My chest heaved, each breath a ragged, painful gasp.
He dropped his hand, his shoulders slumping. “It started… before I even realized what I was doing. I saw you. At the coffee shop, walking your dog. I was… drawn to you. I couldn’t explain it. You just… radiated something. And I started taking pictures. Just… to remember you.”
“Remember me? You didn’t even *know* me!” I spat back, the absurdity of his explanation fueling my anger.
“I know, I know! It was wrong. It was obsessive. I realize that now. But it wasn’t malicious. I swear. I never meant to scare you, or hurt you. I was just… lost. And you felt like… hope.”
His words were pathetic, a flimsy shield against the weight of his actions. But something in his voice, a raw vulnerability that I hadn’t seen before, gave me pause. I looked at the photos again, at the candid moments captured, at the way my face was often lit with a genuine smile, unaware of the stranger watching from afar.
“And then?” I asked, my voice softer, but still laced with caution. “What happened after the photos?”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “I realized it was wrong. I knew I had to stop. I deleted the digital ones. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw these away. They were… a reminder of how messed up I was. And then… then I saw you at the bookstore. We started talking. And I thought… maybe, just maybe, I could actually have a chance. A real chance, not some fantasy built on stolen moments.”
He looked at me, his eyes pleading, searching for any sign of understanding. “I know I messed up. I should have told you. I should have been honest from the beginning. But I was afraid. I was afraid you’d hate me, that you’d never give me a chance if you knew the truth.”
The silence hung heavy between us, the weight of his confession pressing down. I wanted to hate him, to scream, to run away and never look back. But there was something in his remorse, a genuine self-awareness that chipped away at my anger.
“What do you want me to say?” I finally asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He took a step closer, his eyes fixed on mine. “I want you to forgive me. I know it’s a lot to ask. But I promise you, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Showing you that I’m not that person anymore. That the man you know now is real, and loves you, genuinely, without any hidden agendas or stolen moments.”
I looked at him, really looked at him, the man I had come to care for, the man who had, apparently, been watching me long before I even knew he existed. The trust was broken, shattered into a million pieces. But maybe, just maybe, with time and effort, those pieces could be put back together. Not perfectly, not seamlessly, but with a stronger, more honest foundation.
“Okay,” I said, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. “Okay, I’ll try. But you have a lot to prove.”
He smiled, a hesitant, relieved smile that reached his eyes. “I know,” he said. “And I will. I promise you, I will.” He reached for my hand, and this time, I didn’t pull away.