Published: 29 March

Edit: grammatical corrections and removed previous layout, 31 March 

The August of 2017- it had been an extremely humid and hot month, and Irene felt constantly drenched in a sticky layer of sweat, and she’s not only bothered by the physical discomfort- the hot air that sank down on the earth had very much made her hot-tempered and annoyed at everything she sees, and this time round was her roommates’ plates in the sink. Mumbling angrily under her breath about the other lazy girls not doing their dishes, Irene reluctantly pulls on her pink rubber gloves and set to wash the cutlery when a distant movement caught her attention from the corner of her eye.

The curtains were wide open to let in the bright sunlight into the room, but the full length windows were locked as Irene had switched on the air conditioning. The shadowy movement looked like someone was crossing over to her flat from the other veranda, and she instinctively ducked, hiding behind the kitchen island in an attempt to not be seen, or well, possibly attacked by the intruder. She was alone in the apartment, as Seulgi was out since the wee hours to chase down an article lead that could mean more interesting news than the weather reports that they were watching every day. It was a rather far-fetched story, of government ploys and chemical warfare with some international high-profile terrorist groups, but Irene had seen the look in Seulgi’s eyes that she completely thinks the article was worth 4am shenanigans, so she let her be. Wendy has already left for her 3pm lectures. She cautiously slid a knife off the table top and clutched it tightly towards her chest, slowly deciding to take a peek out of the window again.

Irene stands up, inch by inch, eyes furtively searching around for clues of any potential break-in, or worse, the stranger himself waiting to pounce on and attack her.

It was quiet.

She let out the shaky breath that she didn’t realize she was holding, and then glanced at the sink again- and dropped the knife onto the floor.

The dishes were clean, dry even, and stacked very carefully according to size on the rack.

He must be in here, right?

Her small, clammy hand gripped so tightly on the counter top that her fingertips were white, and she stood there, still mentally processing. It was the best to grab the knife again though, for self-defence. If he was still in the house, he would probably be in Wendy’s room, since hers was the only one that was never locked, or in the bathroom that was directly to the left of the kitchen. Their apartment was open-concept, thus there was no wall between the kitchen and living room, but it had a small hallway to the front door. If he weren’t in the rooms, Irene would have already seen him, or he’d left. She dismisses the thought of him crouched on the hallway, somehow that was too scary a thought and decides to check in Wendy’s room first. Besides, she would give him time to leave on his own, unseen, if she goes into a room.

Mustering up all her courage again, Irene picks up the knife and inched her way towards the rooms. The apartment was so dead quiet and she could literally feel the chills despite the sweltering day. Gingerly, using her foot to nudge a corner of the door, it swung open to reveal Wendy’s neat room- and thankfully, no one in sight.

A click could be heard from the door, which Irene subconsciously recognises as the front door, and she closes her eyes and shudders in relief.

It was chaotic over dinner when Irene reveals the incident to her friends, well especially Seulgi, who understandably needs a scoop; “Why do things just happen when I’m not here?” she wailed.

“Well I don’t ever want it to happen again so that’s it, you’re never gonna get that as a story,” Irene retorted, chucking her cubes of chicken around her salad, “You have no idea how scared I was, for real. We need to inform security to keep an eye on the neighbours.”

“Wait, isn’t it Grandpa Lee next door though? That veranda he came through from. And you said it was a young man?”

“Like, maybe it was his son or something?”

“Gramps never married!”

“Maybe the heatstroke got you,” Wendy helpfully provided, noticing the immense fear in Irene’s eyes. “Seulgi, drop it. It isn’t a story when Irene’s so shaken up already. Get some rest mm? I’ll do the dishes.”

Her friends tried not to keep her alone in the apartment for more than a few hours at a go, and the three of them made the living room their choice of sleeping arrangement, with mattresses on the floor and enough blankets to go around. Of course, the curtains were kept tightly shut at all times, just in case anything similar happens again.

The very next week on a Friday- Irene was alone, but Wendy promised she’d be right back after her driving lessons, which usually only takes her a couple of hours at most. Irene knew better than to tag along, reassuring Wendy that she’s good on her own. Trying to take her mind off things, she turns on her own laptop, deciding to make it a productive day by completing a history assignment that was due in a week’s time. She never was a procrastinator anyway.

Logging into the campus portal, a pop up message appears on the screen:

Assignment 2, History of Conflict in the Middle East, submission accepted!

“What even,” Irene mutters under her breath incredulously, “but I haven’t done anything for this?” She downloads the submitted assignment- the style of writing and all of the pointers that she has recorded into her notes- are all exactly hers. Irene highlights the entire document to check the word count, and it did meet the requirements. Except she notices something, a little note at the end of the document, in white font, otherwise invisible if she had not highlighted over it- “Take a good rest today, I’ve finished this up for you. Mr Sweetheart.”

Her heart drops.

But this was harmless enough right? He was not physically there to assault her or anything, and this is probably the best thing a stalker could do for you- homework. She reasoned with herself in her mind, still quivering as she made herself a hot chocolate to calm her nerves.

Seulgi furrows her eyebrows at this encounter that night. “I’ll be right back, checking on something.”

On weekends, Irene works as a barista in a café three blocks down, and it had been an extremely busy day. Her mind had been almost taken off Mr Sweetheart, as there were just so many orders of coffees they needed to make, since it was the mid-terms, to cater to the test-taking, project rushing, crowd of college students. She barely has time to eat, and just couldn’t wait to sink into unconscious bliss on her bed once she returns home.

“A caramel frappe, medium, iced.”

Irene turns her back to make the drink, when a hand softly tapped her back. Thinking it was the customer making changes to his order, Irene spun back quickly with a smile, “Yes?”

The boy, who was busily tapping a message out on his phone, looked up with an equally puzzled expression, crooked his eyebrows.

There was a plain, white letter on the counter. She instinctively pockets it into her apron.

Irene is usually one who does not have the patience to wait till the end of shift to open something as intriguing as a letter, one that was most probably by Mr Sweetheart himself, so she finishes up the drink as fast as she could before rushing into the back room, full of curiosity and also dread.

“I like you, but I won’t ever be able to tell you. Mr Sweetheart.”

It was official. A real stalker watching her every move, knows where she lives and when her flatmates were out, knew her school, knew where she worked and worst of all, calls himself Mr Sweetheart because it was a downright blood-curling name to her.

Very shakily, she stuffs the letter back into her pocket, and asks quietly for the rest of the day off.

“This. This is crazy. I feel like I’m losing my mind, but wow Kang Seulgi, it’s not all fun and games when I’ve got a real stalker!”

Hot tears rolled down her pale cheeks as she wrung her hands, scratching hard at the backs of her hands until they were red. Wendy exchanges eye contact with Seulgi as she moves to give her distraught friend a tight hug from the back- Seulgi was still furiously typing away on her laptop regarding this “case”.

“Irene. It doesn’t even say anything about Mr Sweetheart. You’re making that up-“

“It does! You’re looking at the bloody letter right now! Can’t you read?”

Seulgi holds up a receipt from the cafe. “The note says: get your reporter friend out of the case. It’s hallucinations. There was no letter, you were looking at this receipt all this while, there was never a letter. And you thought up the stalker and all that. All this- somebody was using you to get at me, Irene, I just. I need to get this to my senior.”

Irene grabs the slip back and indeed, it was a plain receipt with the chilling phrase at the back about the sleuth. No “Mr Sweetheart” in sight.

“It’s the chemicals. They’re pumped it into this apartment in times when only Irene is around, and that’s more often than we think, since she hates going out. They want me off their tracks and are using Irene to show the damage that they can do.” Seulgi zips up a jacket, all ready to go out. “Mr Sweetheart was your own hallucinations, he never existed. You did the dishes, then thought he did it. I saw you write your assignment like two weeks ago, and on Friday you thought he did it. This receipt- you thought it was from him, but well, as we can see now that the gas wore off you, it’s clearly not.”

“This is crazy,” Irene whispers, curling up even more. Wendy hugs her even tighter.

“The dishes were clean even before I went out,” Wendy brushes Irene’s bangs out from her eyes.

Seulgi grabs her car keys, “Don’t wait up for me alright. Unni, we might need you to come into the lab for some tests tomorrow, okay?”

The next day, the article was out.

Seulgi's face plastered all over the local newspapers, plus five national ones and a couple more international- all about the young journalist-detective cracking the biggest government secrets breach and heist of the century,a gas that had been developed by the country but very unfortunately fell under the wrong hands. For months she had been digging out the deepest secrets of politicians, scientists and even some A-list entertainers, all at the heels of her more influential, senior journalist that she was attached to. To all have it come down to be solved in her own apartment, when just one mere conspirator committing the simplest mistake- giving away his own handwriting.

This goes down in history as, The Case of Mr Sweetheart.