Sick

He’s so beautiful.

He’s so beautiful it hurts.

He doesn’t know I’m looking, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re the only ones here, him in his own room, and me staring out the window of my room. He’s looking at himself in the mirror, deciding on which shirt to wear. I tell him, the green one. But he doesn’t pick that one because he couldn’t hear me.

I take my camera and take a shot of him. The camera makes a clicking sound, loud enough for him to hear. He looks around trying to find the source, fortunately, he doesn’t. I still can’t get my camera to stay quiet.

After printing the photo, I hang it along with the other photos of him. This whole wall, this mural, is dedicated to him.

I open my closet and at the very end of it is his shirt. I took it when he went on a vacation. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I remove it gingerly from its place and wear it. It smells like him.

I know everything about him. I keep track of everything he does in my notebook. All his hobbies, his favourites, his schedule, his fetishes—everything.

I don’t care if he’s gay. He’s mine.

I love him.