I’m currently crouched in the crawl space behind the hallway linen closet, literally quivering with fear and adrenaline while I type this on my phone. I have a tiny gap in the wood where I can see right into the living room, and watching him sit there—knowing what he’s been doing to my things—is making my head spin.
The thing is, I’m not hiding because I’m scared of him. I’m hiding because I’m a hypocrite.
He thinks he’s the one with the "addiction," but he has no idea what I do when he’s not looking. For months, I’ve been sneaking into his room the second I hear the front door click. I’ve been cumming on his pillows—just small spots near the pillowcase opening—and the thought of him pressing his face into it all night is the only thing that helps me sleep.
And the smell… I’m obsessed with it. Every night, I wait until the house is silent, then I creep over to his laundry and find his crustiest socks. I give them a deep, long whiff until I’m lightheaded. It’s so shameful and "weird," and I know I’m probably a terrible person, but I secretly enjoy every second of the risk.
Watching him through this crack in the wall while I read his confession... it’s almost too much. I saw him look at that spot on my blanket and "play dumb" about the neighbor's cat, and I had to bite my hand to keep from making a sound. I wasn't judging him; I was wondering if he’d notice the scent I left on his pillowcase this morning.
I’m stuck in this secret spot just watching him, wondering if we’re both going to ruin our lives or if this is some sick, perfect match. I don't know how much longer I can keep this a secret before I break.