The Stalker: Love, Romane, Action, Malik, Stalking, Free Short Story, Fabling, Pam
“Bro, I’m telling you, someone’s always swiping my clothes,” Malik said as he walked his friend Dede out of the apartment. “Just yesterday, I hung my boxers to dry, barely turned around, and poof, they were gone.”
“Have you asked everyone in the compound?” Dede raised a brow.
“Asked? I’ve visited every one of them, pretending to check for something else, but no sign of my stuff. It’s like they steal it and sell it off immediately.”
Dede’s laughter echoed in the hallway as their voices faded away.
I lingered by the window, savoring Malik’s voice, even when he was venting. It wasn’t too deep or too light, just the right balance, like the sensation of warm oil being massaged into your back. When his voice finally disappeared, I pulled myself away from the window, stretched, and strolled into the bathroom, dressed only in his boxers.
The familiar scent of Dudu Osun soap filled the air as I lathered up, his favorite brand—I’d seen him toss the empty packs into the trash more than once. After rinsing off, I dried myself with his towel, slid back into his boxers, and rummaged through my wardrobe. I pulled out one of his shirts and slipped it on, feeling his scent wrap around me like a comforting embrace.
I closed my eyes, imagining his breath on the nape of my neck, his strong arms pulling me close, our hearts beating in rhythm, bodies perfectly aligned. But today, my thoughts were innocent. Last night was another story—he was tied to his bed, helpless, as I took what I wanted.
The sound of his footsteps snapped me out of my reverie. He was coming back. I needed to be quick. Today, he was visiting his mother, and I had to know where his parents lived. I knew everything about his life, except for his family.
I returned his shirt to the wardrobe, slipped on a knee-length dress over his boxers, brushed my hair down my shoulders, dabbed on some makeup, grabbed my sneakers and handbag, and walked out of my apartment just as he stepped out of his.
Our eyes met, but we didn’t exchange a word. We’d been flatmates for over a year, yet we had never spoken. Mostly my fault—I avoided him, couldn’t bring myself to say anything. He probably thought I was stuck-up.
He locked his door, started walking, and I followed, boarding the same bus. I pretended it was coincidence, but I could feel the tension—he was dying to ask me something, but he held back, just like always.
The bus jerked into motion, and I instinctively pulled out my phone, ready to stalk Malik on Facebook. I wasn’t paying attention, lost in the glow of my screen. I don’t know what happened next—one second we were cruising along, the next the bus veered violently off the road, careening down a steep hill.
I sat in the third row, middle seat, with Malik just ahead of me. Glass exploded around us, the world spinning in a blur of chaos. It all happened too fast. By the time the bus finally stopped tumbling, the woman next to me—heavyset and wide-eyed—was gone. Shock or blood loss, I wasn’t sure. The air was thick with the groans and cries of the injured.
Somehow, I was alive. The weight of the woman had pinned me painfully to my seat, her screams mingling with others calling out, “Blood of Jesus.” My ears rang with the panic. With a sharp inhale, I forced myself free from under her, my breath catching as I saw my phone lodged between her breasts. I pulled it out with trembling hands.
The window beside me was shattered. I braced my foot against the frame and kicked at the broken glass. I was almost out when I heard him—Malik—groaning in pain.
I turned, heart racing. An injured man had fallen on top of him, trapping him beneath the wreckage. Without thinking, I shoved the man aside and grabbed Malik’s arm, pulling him toward me. The window was too small to drag him through. Then I saw the windshield—cracked but intact, with the driver’s limp body draped across the bonnet.
I kicked at it, the glass splintering beneath my heel. One more kick, and it gave way completely. Grabbing Malik by the shoulders, I hauled him out of the bus. As we hit the ground, I saw a few other passengers crawl through the shattered windows, dazed and bloodied. I hadn’t even noticed them when I was inside.
Spectators had already gathered, swarming to pull out the remaining passengers—most of them lifeless, bodies twisted in unnatural angles. My hands shook as I pressed Malik’s shirt against the wound in his abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding. His face was mostly unscathed, save for a small cut on his forehead, but his body was battered.
The ambulance arrived sooner than I expected, red and white lights flashing against the wreckage. Paramedics rushed to us, pulling me and Malik onto stretchers.
“Will he be okay?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper as a nurse bandaged Malik’s wound.
“He’ll be fine,” she said gently. “You need to stay calm—you’re hurt too.”
That’s when the pain hit me. Like a wave crashing over me, every nerve in my body screamed at once. My neck throbbed, likely bruised from the weight of the woman. My legs were a mess, shards of glass embedded deep into my skin. The agony was too much. Darkness closed in.
When I woke again, I was in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. The drip wasn’t blood—just saline. But I was alive.
I was okay. The doctor reassured me I had fainted from shock, not blood loss. My first thought was Malik. I needed to know if he was alright. They told me he was stable but needed a blood transfusion. My heart raced. I remembered my blood type—O positive—and suggested I donate. At first, the doctor hesitated, but after running a blood test, they agreed.
Standing beside Malik’s bed, I watched as my blood flowed into his veins, connecting us in the most intimate way. **My blood is in him now. We’re one.** The thought flooded me with a strange sense of satisfaction. If I had to live through that accident a hundred times to experience this feeling, I would.
“Miss Agero,” the doctor’s voice broke through my reverie. He stepped into the room, holding a familiar item. “The police recovered this. It’s his bag. You can give it to him when he wakes up.”
He handed me both Malik’s backpack and my handbag. Amazingly, my ATM card and money were still inside. Curiosity tugged at me. I opened Malik’s bag, and there it was—his phone, untouched, no password lock. Temptation got the better of me, and I started scrolling through his messages, WhatsApp, everything.
I wasn’t prepared for what I found. The first picture in his gallery stunned me. It was my Facebook profile picture. My heart skipped. I scrolled down, seeing more—photo after photo of me. Malik had been stalking me too. This was fate.
The End
Who else to give me this tittle challenge than my darling herself, my partner in crime, Ekwebelem Tsunade Elizabeth!
If you enjoyed The Stalker you’ll enjoy The Secret