For the next three nights, my shadow stood outside my window. Watching me, a red cherry blaring in the night as he puffed on a cigarette. What I wanted to tell him is how fucking disgusting it is that he smokes. But the heat between my thighs likes the way he looks. I think my asshole of a vagina might’ve even been jealous of the cigarette. Apparently, it has a thing for inanimate objects. And that reminder royally pissed me off. Enough to storm into the kitchen and pour myself an entire cup of wine. Wine cures everything for a little while. Anger. Trauma. But now, with a glass of wine absent, rage causes my hands to tremble with the reminder of how he left me on the floor, tossing a rose on me like discarded trash and then leaving. I had never felt more debased as a human until that moment. Never more humiliated. He hasn’t messaged me since. Hasn’t tried to come to me and wave another gun in my face. He just lingered outside the window. And I stared back. It’s become our fucked-up routine. He doesn’t come around during the day, and as long as I’m not letting men feel me up and stick their hand down my pants, he doesn’t text me any more threatening messages.