Page 21 of Love Me Stalk Me
I should pick something simple. Something meaningless. Something that doesn't reveal too much about what I'm missing.
But before I can stop myself, my fingers move across the keyboard?—
Pretty girl
My throat constricts as I look at the words displayed on the screen. It's not a name Evan has ever called me. Not once in three years.
But I remember reading it in a book years ago. A romance novel where the male lead said it like a prayer, like hemeantit. Like his woman was the most beautiful person in the world, and he wanted her to know it every day with those simple words.
I read that line over and over, heart pounding, aching with a need I didn't even fully understand back then. To be looked at like that. To bewantedlike that. To have a man see me—really see me—and thinkshe's so beautiful, I'm going to call her that forever.
The thought makes desire twist deep in my soul, a longing for something I've never had but desperately want.
I press enter before I can change my mind, and the next screen loads.
Customize Your Perfect Man
My breath catches, my heart speeding up. A silhouette appears on the screen, blurred and undefined, waiting to be shaped by my choices. Below it, sliders and drop-down options let me adjust every detail of this digital fantasy.
I should rush through this. Pick random features, not dwell on each selection. But instead, my fingers hover over the first option, the wine making me bolder than I would be otherwise.
Height?
I slide it up. Tall. Bigger than me. 6’ 4”.
Build?
I don't hesitate—strong. Broad shoulders. A man who could wrap himself around me and make me feel small, protected.
I inhale slowly, my thumb moving to the next section, each choice feeling like a confession.
Hair?
Dark.
Eyes?
I pause for too long. The default option is a light brown, safe and non-threatening. But before I can think better of it,I tap and change it.
Green.
I know what I'm doing. I know whose image I'm recreating with each selection. I should stop. I should pick different features, should make this fantasy completely separate from the real man who brought me dinner tonight. But my fingers are already moving to the next option.
Tattoos?
Yes.
Forearms, shoulders, chest?
A full sleeve.
I exhale shakily, the realization of what I've done washing over me. This isn't just a fantasy—I've built Callahan into this AI, shaped this digital companion to mirror him in too many ways to be coincidental.
I tapNextbefore I can second-guess myself, before I can process the way my heart is hammering, before I can admit that this is more than a harmless distraction.
The final screen loads with one last prompt:
Enter a name
