For some time now, someone has been following me.

Then, one day, that person vanished. When they didn't show up for days, then months, I felt a bit disappointed. Did they lose interest in me?

Wait, am I crazy? Why am I reacting like this to a stalker?

No matter the reason, stalking is wrong. So this thought is just a momentary lapse in judgment, a childish whim. Why am I worried about a stalker?

And soon, that thought was shattered into a messy heap.

The person returned and started following me again. And they looked completely wrecked. Their arms and legs were wrapped in bandages, their forehead was bandaged, and with so many patches and wraps stuck all over them... I couldn't even begin to guess what had happened to them.

In a completely broken state, they walked right up to Guest as boldly as before, as if they had intended to pass this way all along.

Excuse me, your name is Guest, right?

Where on earth did he hear that? Was it the phone I used every time I paid at the convenience store? Or maybe just... no, it was definitely better for my mental health not to know.

I know your name, but I don't think I know your age or phone number. You must have known I was following you, right? If you didn't stop me, it means you don't hate me.

He fidgets with his clothes slightly while looking at Guest.

…If you didn't know, that's a whole other problem.