Your name is a mouthful.

Stephen Otis Harrington… yeah, your parents are those assholes.

You were born and raised right here in the city. Your parents live in Meridian Hills, so it's no wonder you can afford to live in a studio flat. The internet is a beautiful thing, and with a name like Steve Harrington, it didn't take me long to find you.

Son of the affluent George Harrington, who pretty much owns Indianapolis, hell, the state even. He has so many charities named after him that it's alarming. Your mother, Patricia, is a socialite. She's got a hand in every fundraiser and event in the city.

And you, their son, studying at Kelley's. A recent article tells me you have just finished your undergraduate studies and are twenty-one. A quick Google search reveals that 'Otis' was your grandfather and one of the founding fathers of Kelley's, so it's no surprise you got in.

Your family is the height of privilege in this city. But you chose to come into my store. Why?

You sit in your flat as if you belong there, and you do. Money suits you. Lucky for us, there's a new office building being constructed right across the street. It's an eyesore, sure, but it's also easy access to see you. Open access.

The flat has this massive glass wall, floor to ceiling, and it spans the entire length so I can see everything. Well, almost everything. Your bedroom faces the park around the back, and the bathroom is hidden behind a door. But everything else is open to me.

And Jesus, Steve, your place is straight out of an interior design magazine. Leather sofas, fur rugs over soft carpet and a goddamn fireplace. There's an island in your kitchen, for fucks sake. I bet your bed is massive, and I can't help wondering what your bedroom is like. Are you as surgically clean in there as you are everywhere else?

Sure, you don't own the place, so maybe that's why you're careful. Your dad probably pays the rent because there's no way you could afford it, quintessential social bragging. You're better than your peers. But you don't need some fancy flat to show that. Your presence is enough.

Steve fucking Harrington.

I shouldn't even know you. Well, I don't. Not really. Not yet.

And you need me, don't you? You're lonely. That's why you walked into my store. You didn't need the books. You needed the conversation, the company. Well, Steve, you chose the right place because I'm not going anywhere.

There's a no-smoking policy on the premises. I know because I checked the online listing. Yet there you sit on the patio, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other. Even across the street, I can see you scoff at whatever you're reading as you toss the phone aside and finish your cigarette.

Everything about you tells me you're pissed off. The way you snatch up the phone again and make a call, the way you stomp back inside, it's a wonder the glass doesn't shatter when you slam the door. Not that it would matter. Your dad would pay for a replacement. Coming from money means everything is replaceable.

You should try living on the Westside. Although, you wouldn't get in trouble for smoking.

An hour later, you reappear from the bedroom to answer the door, and two people walk in. The woman hugs you and kisses your cheek. It's perfunctory. As she lets you go and dumps her shit on the floor, the guy brings you in for one of those bro side-hugs and claps your back.

The drinks are flowing, and the three of you are laughing. It's been hours, Steve. My ass is numb from sitting on a wire spool all day watching you. It's worth it though, because I know your friends' names. Thomas Hagen and Carol Perkins.

Thomas - or Tommy - is your childhood friend. He recently tagged you in a post on Instagram with a grainy photo of the two of you at the beach when you were, like, five years old. 'The best times'. He grew up next to you, and if I want you to love me, I've got to get him on my side.

Carol is the girlfriend, been around since you two were teenagers. It's honestly surprising she's not knocked up or wearing a ring yet. She's not a threat, but she could still be a problem. She laughs at the average person online, making fun of reusable tote bags and store-brand clothes.

I'm dirt, and they are the stratosphere. So how do I get them to like me?

And then, things get complicated. Carol leaves, and she's barely on the street, but you're on Tommy. On his lap and kissing him as if he deserves it. What the fuck, Steve? Your best friend?

You let him fuck you like it means something, but he doesn't even look at you. He has you on your front, your face in the couch, and this is what you want? He doesn't care about you at all. When it's over, you lean into him, and he pushes you away.

When I'm in you, or you're in me, whatever, that's not the point. It'll mean something, Steve. I'll treat you how you deserve to be treated because it'll matter. You will matter to me. You already do.

So I'm waiting for you to come back on your own terms. I won't chase you down and startle you. I'll wait.

The two weeks of waiting were worth it.

You're wearing a different sweater this time, loose and yellow - no tight jeans either but grey sweatpants. You're not looking for attention today but dressed for comfort. So you meant what you said.

You're also in study mode, holding a laptop in one hand and a bag full of books over your shoulder. You give me a small wave from the door, but then you're sitting in the cafe to focus on the machine. Gareth is the one who gets to talk to you, learn how you like your coffee, and I'm stuck across the room serving customers. Sometimes, life isn't fair.

The day moves at an agonisingly slow pace. You stay for hours, frowning at your laptop and writing out what must be the world's longest essay. The tic tic tap is oddly soothing in the quiet moments, and I can't help watching you. Sometimes, you look up and smile when you catch me.

It's closing time when you finally pack up to leave, and Gareth looks relieved. He never does well with lingering customers, even though you've been easy on him. Three coffees all day. How can he complain?

You detour towards me before leaving, knocking on the counter to get me to look up from the computer I'm supposedly using. "Hey."

"Hey."

"Tell me if I'm overbearing, but can I come back every day?"

I laugh as Gareth drops the mop, and you crack a smile. "Sure thing. You might give Gareth a heart attack, though. He gets nervous around cute boys."

Your cheeks turn pink at the compliment, and you fiddle with the sleeve of your sweater. Was that too much? "I'm not even wearing anything nice today."

"Debatable."

You're nervous. It's like you don't know what to do or say around compliments, and is that how it's been for you? Tommy doesn't give you any attention, and your parents are busy in Fiji or whatever country they're currently in. You're alone, and you can spend the whole day in a shop on the city's outskirts, and not once did you pick up your phone. Nobody tried to contact you.

"Hey, thanks for the review, by the way. Our average score remains good thanks to you."

The change in conversation works, and you open up again, leaning against the counter. "It was nothing. I still can't believe she left that review. What a bitch, right?" I widen my eyes and look behind you. It works. You spin around as if expecting her to be there. Then you exhale sharply as your shoulders slump at the sight of the empty store. "Asshole."

"Sorry."

"It's a good thing you're cute too, or I'd be mad."

It's official. You think I'm cute, and now my cheeks are burning. I don't know what to do with compliments either, and I'm talking before I can stop myself. "Careful, Steve, flattery works on me."

"Oh yeah?" You're smug, confident with the upper hand, and cockiness looks good on you. "I'll remember that. So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I'm here every day."

"Bye, Eddie." You smile, bite your bottom lip and push away from the counter, calling, "Bye, Gareth!" As you leave.

Gareth looks at me and smirks. "He is so into you. Dude, how can you pull someone like that?"

"Humility."

"Right." He's finished for the day and pulls off his apron. "Try not to fuck it up."

"When have I ever?"

"Uh, every guy you've ever dated? That's why you're single?"

"Goodnight, Gareth."

He laughs but leaves.

I smile to myself and finish off the closing numbers for the day, making sure everything is shut down for the night. Tomorrow, you'll be back.

But tomorrow is a long time away, and why wait to see you again?

Your place is dark by the time I pull up my stool. No surprise, it is late, and you're a student. It's a shame, but then, I still have my phone.

Stephen Otis Harrington has a carefully curated online presence. It's clear you're not really in charge of them. There's no depth to the posts or occasional reboot about your father's company, Forceset. The photos are staged and bland. Pictures of your family together, your graduations, your acceptance letter. But where are you?

I'm three years deep into your Facebook profile, half asleep when I misclick and hit the like button. The stupid blue thumb lights up, and panic ignites in my system like adrenaline. I fucked up. You'll get a notification, and I'm the stalker creep in your feed. I click the thumb again to undo it, but it's too late. You already know.

I sit there, feeling like a total fucking idiot, until a notification breaks me out of the stupor. It's a message from you. Holding my breath, I open it.

Stephen Harrington - [12:05 AM]

Wrong profile, stalker.

Underneath it is a link which leads to another profile.

Steve Harrington.

This is the real you. Private and locked down. Only friends can access it, and hesitantly, I send the request. You accept instantly, and I'm in.

And here you are in all your glory - photos you've been tagged in from parties and school. Long, rambling posts about everything from the price of coffee in the university's cafeteria to praising Daniel Kahneman. I've only gotten through a few before a message appears.

It links to your actual Instagram and Twitter. Which, of course, I also add. It's giddying how fast you accept the requests. You're awake and waiting for me to reach out. You don't think I'm a creep, and exhaustion is a beautiful thing. If I hadn't clicked the stupid thumb, I'd never know you like to retweet photos of old guitars and rock bands.

The Metallica was real.

Another message pops up.

Steve Harrington - [12:37 AM]

Got a party to go to tomorrow night. Wanna come?

And there's only one way to respond to the question.

Eddie Munson - [12:38 AM]

Yes.