Suddenly, my heart skipped a beat as I recognized the dress I was wearing. It was the blue flowered Madewell dress that I had accidentally spilled red wine on in mid-July, nearly a full month before I met Max. I loved that dress but I hadn’t been able to get out the stain, and I’d had to throw it away.

Why did Max have a photo of me wearing it?

I opened the next photo, and it was another shot of me in the same outfit, seemingly taken mere seconds later. The next photo was more of the same. I kept clicking open photos until I realized there were at least fifty of me in that same outfit, walking down the same street, sipping the same drink.

What the fuck?

I opened another photo at random and saw me, clad in black Lululemon and with my hair in a sweaty ponytail, digging in my bag, as if searching for my keys. The viewpoint was from across the street, as though the photographer had been watching me from afar.

Not “the photographer,” I corrected myself. Max.

Cold reality drenched me as I realized what that meant: Max had been taking surreptitious photos of me long before we met. Max had been watching me. Max had been stalking me.

I shot out of bed and fumbled for my clothing. My limbs shook as I stepped back into my jeans, pulled my shirt over my head. Max is stalking me. All those times I’d heard someone in the alley, all those times I’d thought someone was behind me … it had been Max. Jesus, what if he had been the one in my apartment, too?

I checked the time on my phone, trying to judge how long he had been gone. How long would it take him to pick up our usual order of pad thai and papaya salad and return to the apartment? I had to get out of there before he returned. In a panic, I closed the folder and replaced the laptop where I found it, and then grabbed my bag and began shoving my loose belongings into it: my laptop, my wallet, my sunglasses.

Just get out of here! my brain screamed at me. Leave your stuff behind!

I was halfway to the door before I paused. I looked back into his familiar apartment, noticing the empty LaCroix can I’d left on the counter, the Atlantic Max had been reading last night splayed on the arm of the couch. The door to his bedroom stood open, his soft bed with its sheets probably still warm from my body heat just beyond it. Ted and the Honey continued playing from his laptop, as though I hadn’t just discovered something life changing and horrible on it. How could everything still seem so normal?

Max is the stalker.

I raced out of his apartment, opening the Lyft app as I did so. I hesitated when it asked my destination. I couldn’t go home. Home wasn’t safe. Besides, it was the first place Max would think to look for me. I plugged in Cat’s address. Cat would help me. I could always count on her.