The wrapping paper was gold with a satin ribbon, the kind of box that makes you lean forward with anticipation. It was my birthday, and my coworker, Aaron, had handed it to me with a shy smile. “You’ll love it,” he said, his voice softer than usual. I laughed, teasing him for making such a fuss. But when I pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid, I froze. Inside wasn’t perfume or jewelry—it was a leather-bound diary. My name was written across the cover in looping handwriting. I opened it, and my world tilted. Page after page, my name filled the lines, surrounded by scribbled notes, fantasies, and secrets no one was ever supposed to see.
At first, I thought it was a mistake, that he had given me the wrong box. But when I glanced up, Aaron was watching me too intently, his eyes gleaming with something that made my stomach clench. “Do you like it?” he asked.
The backstory of Aaron and me wasn’t remarkable. We worked together for two years, exchanged polite smiles, shared coffee breaks. He was quiet, the kind of man who blended into the background. Sometimes he’d compliment my earrings or ask about my weekend, but I thought nothing of it. I had a boyfriend, a life outside the office. Aaron was just…there. Reliable. Forgettable. Or so I thought.
The buildup to this moment was scattered with odd details I ignored. The time he knew I’d gone to the beach, though I hadn’t told anyone at work. The way he quoted things I’d said weeks earlier, word for word. Once, he left a coffee on my desk with “just how you like it” written on the cup. I laughed it off, chalking it up to friendliness. But now, flipping through the diary, I saw the truth. He hadn’t just noticed me. He had been studying me.
The climax hit with one horrifying page. In shaky letters, he had written: One day, she’ll see we’re meant to be. One day, she’ll be mine. My breath caught in my throat. My fingers trembled as I snapped the diary shut. “What is this, Aaron?” I whispered, my voice shaking.
He leaned closer, his smile tight. “It’s everything I’ve never been able to say out loud. You’re special to me. I thought…you’d understand.”
The party around us blurred. My friends laughed, the music thumped, but I was locked in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. “This isn’t love,” I choked out. “This is obsession.” His smile faltered, his eyes flashing with something darker. “Obsession, love—it’s the same thing when it’s real,” he murmured.
The resolution came later, after I shoved the box back into his hands and demanded he leave. My boyfriend walked in just as Aaron slipped out, confusion etched across his face. I told him everything, every terrifying detail. The police got involved, and soon after, Aaron was gone from the office. But the damage lingered. For weeks, I woke up at night, hearing phantom footsteps outside my door. I changed my locks. I carried pepper spray.
Months later, I found the diary again, tucked away in an evidence box the police had returned. I didn’t open it this time. I didn’t need to. The words had already etched themselves into my mind. But instead of fear, I felt something else: relief. Because obsession only has power in silence, and I had found the strength to name it out loud.
Final Thought
Sometimes the scariest gifts don’t come wrapped in blackmail or threats. Sometimes they arrive in gold paper with satin ribbon, disguised as affection. Aaron thought his diary would bind me to him, but it only revealed the truth—love can never be written in secret, only in honesty. And his words weren’t love at all.
