Nothing screams crazy like smelling your favorite food when you’re delirious with hunger.

I flick the light on and blink. I blink again, thinking the sight in front of me will change and my delirious mind will snap out of it. But it stays exactly the same.

On my kitchen island is a single candle, its flame flickering in time with my pounding heart. Beneath it, a perfectly white plate and silverware that probably costs more than every item I own in the kitchen. Then the sight that truly has me breathless: perfectly cooked lasagna, a plate of sliced ciabatta with garlic butter and melted cheese, and a bottle of wine.

My three favorite things.

For the first time in a while, a real smile tugs at my lips. Without thinking I reach into my bag to fish out my phone to dial the number at the very top: Evan.

I start hobbling toward the bedroom while stripping out of my clothes that smell like stale milk and a crappy day.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Thank you,” I say breathlessly. “I love it.”

I don’t know how he managed to pull this off with finances being so tight, but this is the sweetest thing he’s done for me since the accident. He must have felt bad for manhandling me the day before and being a dick yesterday morning.

“Uh, okay?”

I tie the cheap silk robe—that’s oddly softer than usual—tightly around my waist and pull on some underwear. For one blissful moment, I feel like the old Lili who walked around the house with a robe and a glass of wine while music played in the background. But the thought dies when I hear feminine giggles on the other side of the phone, followed by Evan harshly whispering, “Shut up.”

The worst part is that it doesn’t sound like his flatmate’s laugh.

Logic tears at the joy I felt and steals the smile that was on my lips only seconds ago. Reality is the worst pain there is. Would he not join me if he went through the effort of making all of this? Wouldn’t he wait at the apartment to see my reaction? How did he even get inside without a key? Where did he get the plates and the silverware? Since when does he even cook?

The creak of the wood beneath my feet is louder than ever before, but I’m deaf to the words coming out of Evan’s mouth about how busy he will be and how he won’t be able to see me. Then I stop in front of the counter and properly take in the setup, including the brown parchment sitting on the bench, just above the plate. With hesitant hands, I unroll the letter:

A feast worthy of my creature of the night. Enjoy your meal, my love.

I press the big red button on my phone, hanging up the call even though words keep coming out of Evan’s mouth.

The Faceless Man did all of this. How did he know that it’s my favorite food when I haven’t had it since before the accident?

I could call the police and tell them that someone did all of this, and that this whole time I was right. But they wouldn’t believe me anyway. Part of me wants to knock on my neighbor’s door and give them all of the food just so the Faceless Man doesn’t think that he has me wrapped around his finger.

That would be a waste of food; he does. He well and truly has me hooked. It terrifies me and thrills me all at the same time.

It’s just one meal, I try to rationalize with myself. It’s not like you have anything else to eat. Plus there’s enough there to freeze for the next few days. But what if he starts doing this every night?

My stomach decides for me, and I’m pulled to the seat and pile my plate. Actually, I wouldn’t mind coming home to this every night: a candlelit dinner with food that smells like it was made by the gods.

I hesitate when I reach for the wine bottle. I have barely eaten today, and I’m pretty sure my medication came with a big warning not to consume alcohol. I’ve followed that rule since the day I started it, but the medication clearly isn’t working…

What’s the worst that could happen if I drink? I start hallucinating, I go crazy? It can’t possibly be worse than the cards I’ve already been dealt.

When a faceless man brings you the best meal you’ve ever eaten and a bottle of wine that has the logo embossed into the glass, wouldn’t it be rude not to try everything that he has to offer?

The red liquid sloshes into the brand new wine glass, and the aroma of it scratches the memories of the old Lili. I was never a connoisseur of wine but even I know that this is good wine. I down the glass before I think better of it and pour another one, taking big sips between every mouthful of food.

With each passing second, my body feels lighter and lighter and my numb thoughts defrost. But my free mind doesn’t cause any pain, only a hollow giddiness that makes me grab my phone to play music.

The melody fills the void of silence, though the lack of company sings louder. I need more than just letters or random texts. I crave conversation and physical touch. I can’t even remember the last time Evan and I were intimate. It must have been at least four months ago, and there was nothing memorable about it.

When I’ve eaten more than I have in weeks and the wine has done superior work at making me feel better than any of Dr. Mallory’s drugs, I reach for my phone and go into the message thread with the ‘unknown sender’.

My fingers start moving across the keyboard, only for my drunken mind to think of something better. Brazen and completely idiotic, I rush into my bedroom and tear out a page from my notebook and scrawl:

Join me next time.

Instead of rolling the paper, I fold it into what has to be one of the worst paper planes I have ever made and leave it exactly where he left my letter.

I place the fancy new cutlery in the kitchen sink and run water over it, not trusting myself to wash it in this state.

I check that the paper plane is exactly where he left his note, and lock myself in the bathroom. The floor spins beneath me and I’m not quite sure how I feel about leaving a message for him. I’m basically inviting him to keep haunting me. It was a stupid idea, ridiculous, really.

I don’t wait for the water to warm before stepping under the showerhead. I want it to wash away my thoughts and all the scars on my body that the accident left behind.

He clearly has no intention of actually speaking to me. If he hasn’t done so in a year, it makes very little sense that he will start now. But he’s becoming so much more forward now, testing the boundaries that I thought he put in place.

Dread becomes a second heartbeat in my chest. What if he sees it and doesn’t respond? But what if he sees it and does join me? I don’t know which one would be worse: meeting my stalker, getting rejected by him, or becoming penpals with him?

I don’t know how long I stand there, swaying from foot to foot, while my thoughts play in a loop. Eventually the water turns cold again and I rush out before it can chill me to the bone.

The threadbare towel barely holds when I wrap it around my body. It strains against my breasts and I have to clutch the fabric just in case I flash someone from the apartments across the street.

A swirl of emotions clogs my throat when I find that my paper plane has been replaced with another brown parchment. I brace myself for the rejection, to be told that it was the worst idea he’s ever heard. Instead, heat burns my skin and the air around me becomes too much to handle.

You are the only thing that I will be tasting.

When I think of the other night’s dream, it isn’t his fingers I’m imagining in my mouth, but his cock. I’d taste him and imprint it into memory. I’ll look up and see nothing but darkness beneath his hood, the storm becoming angrier with each rumble of his chest. He’ll pound into me, tearing me from the inside out, and every moment will feel like ecstasy. Lightning will light up the sky as he releases himself into my mouth.