The Girl Who Knew Too Much

 A few years back, I flew down to Florida to visit my old friend for a couple of weeks. I needed the break, a chance to clear my head and enjoy some time away from my usual routine. My friend lived in a decent-sized apartment complex near the city, nothing fancy but comfortable. I had barely been there a day when things started getting… weird.

It started at a coffee shop near my friend’s place. We had gone there for a quick breakfast, and as we sat down, I noticed a girl at the far end of the café. Blonde, maybe early twenties, just sitting there—staring at me.

At first, I thought maybe I had something on my face or my shirt was inside-out, but no. She was just locked in, watching me like I was the only person in the room. After a few minutes, it got uncomfortable. I made eye contact with her, half-expecting her to look away, but instead, she smiled—slow, deliberate.

I turned back to my friend and tried to shake it off.

An hour later, we were walking back to his place when I saw her again. This time, she was standing at the entrance to his apartment complex, just standing there. She didn’t say anything, didn’t move—just stared as we walked past. I asked my friend if he knew her, but he just shrugged. I figured maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe she lived in the complex.

But it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

Over the next few days, I saw her everywhere.

If I went to grab food, she was there, a few tables away. If I went for a walk, she was across the street, watching. Never talking. Never approaching. Just smiling.

One night, around 11 PM, I stepped out onto the balcony to get some fresh air. My friend lived on the fifth floor. As I leaned against the railing, I happened to glance down toward the parking lot—and there she was.

Standing directly below me. Looking straight up. Smiling.

I backed away from the railing. My skin was crawling. I grabbed my phone, ready to text my friend about it when my screen lit up with a new message.

From an unknown number.

"I love watching you sleep."

I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs.

How did she get my number?

How did she know where I was staying?

I didn’t sleep that night.

A few days later, I convinced myself I was overreacting. Maybe she was just some weird girl who had taken a liking to me, but I was leaving soon. I figured once I flew back home, it wouldn’t matter.

Then, on the second to last night of my trip, things escalated.

I had gone out with my friend and a few of his buddies. We hit up a bar, had a few drinks, nothing crazy. I didn’t tell anyone where we were going beforehand—it was a last-minute decision.

But somehow, she knew.

We were sitting at a booth when she appeared, sliding into the seat directly across from me. For the first time since I’d seen her, she spoke.

"How could you go out drinking with that bitch, (my full name)? I thought you loved me."

My stomach dropped. I had never told her my name. Not my first name. Certainly not my full name.

Then she leaned in and whispered, "I don’t want to do something drastic, but you’re making me."

That was it. I had had enough. I stood up, towering over her, and let my anger take over.

"I don’t know who the hell you are, or how you’ve been following me, but if you so much as breathe near me or my friends again, I will make damn sure you regret it."

She blinked, tears welling in her eyes. Then, in the middle of the bar, she started screaming.

Screaming about how I had broken her heart. Screaming about how I had ruined her life.

Security stepped in and pulled her away. My friends were stunned. One of them asked me how I knew her.

"I don’t," I told them.

After that night, she started showing up less frequently. A week after I left Florida, my friend called me with an update.

She had tried to hurt herself in her apartment, ranting about me and a few other guys, saying we had "ruined" her life. After that, she just… disappeared.

No one saw her again.

I don’t know where she went, and honestly? I don’t want to know.