I choose the word “detective”

Because it sounds better
(and less scarily suspect)
than the word
“Stalking”.
But in all honesty, that’s what I’m doing.
Sitting not-so-pretty in my dorm hallway
In my cheap five-dollar sandals
And a sweatshirt to keep out the chill
Of the air-conditioning (which never stops running)
And to protect me from
The curious eyes
Of everyone else on my floor.
“Did you get locked out?”
“What are you doing down there?”
“Are you...alright?”
Of course I am.
I just wanted to get out of the dimly lit spanse of my cell, sorry, apartment, sorry again
Dorm room,
Because inside it feels less like a mother’s comforting womb of intelligence
And more like a stay
In a psychiatric facility after an attempt at harming something
Someone
That didn’t really deserve it,
Because I’m always alone, and the lighting is never quite right
(and, of course, I’ll admit it you’re hardly ever
To be found
In my room).
So I’m on the floor of the hallway, back pressed against the dusty carpeted wall, spine curved
In a way that means I’ll be incredibly sorry I sat that way
In about an hour and a half.
My laptop is out, and I’m an undercover agent
To the innocent bystander, I’m doing
Homework.
Writing an essay.
Watching more Buzzfeed videos than one individual should ever watch in their lifetime.
But ha! Joke’s on them, because I did that
Yesterday.
Right now, I’m secretly opening up tabs of covert operations
And secret, suspenseful, impending information.
Google your name.
Nope, that’s a senator.
Google your full name.
Nope, movie director.
Google it in quotes…?
WHAT?
To the best of my knowledge, you’re not a porn star
So I keep scrolling.
Page 2 of the google results...now I’ve truly ventured into the unknown.
But wait…
Is that a Twitter account?
Click.
Follow. Oops!...Unfollow.
No, that’s even weirder, says the anxiety, tsk-tsking in my head like a disappointed relative.
Follow again.
Scroll through the pictures.
There’s your opinion on the political candidates.
There’s last year’s prom picture (no one’s with you, but I pat myself on the back for noticing
That I didn’t notice that
On purpose. I think.)
You’re in a suit, you’re wearing lip gloss.
These are a few of my favorite things.
I take note of that information, remind myself I’m in the middle of an investigation, and retreat back to page two and three of Google.
An Instagram.
Thank the powers that be for a g****** plethora of social media.
There’s approximately 163 pictures of you here,
Going all the way up to last weekend
And going all the way back
To when you had glasses and shorter hair
And a friend that I know. Red-haired. Shorter than I remember, but not by much.
I miss her almost as much as I’m missing you
And she’s about 200 miles away,
While you…
You just passed me in the hallway,
With a quick smile and a hello
But you don’t fool me.
I know you’re guilty. You’re a thief.
You stole my heart.
And I intend to prove it.