That night, I found a small velvet box in the left pocket. Inside wasn’t a ring. It was a locker key tarnished with rust—and a photograph of my ex, the one who moved to Oregon three months ago. In the photo, he’s smiling at a coffee shop. In the photo, someone has drawn a red circle around his temple.
Here’s a short piece based on the prompt “yandere blonde blazer”: The first time Eli let me borrow his blazer, I thought it was an accident. He draped it over my shoulders after I shivered in the campus library’s arctic AC, and I smiled, grateful. “Thanks,” I whispered. He just blinked, those pale blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity I mistook for kindness. yandere blonde blazer
The second time, I found it hanging on my dorm room door. No note. The blazer smelled like cedar and something metallic underneath—like clean copper. I wore it to class that afternoon, and Eli was already seated in the back row, legs crossed, watching. He smiled when he saw me. A slow, possessive curve of his lips. That night, I found a small velvet box in the left pocket
On the back, in elegant handwriting: “He touched your hand once. I was patient. Don’t make me patient again.” In the photo, he’s smiling at a coffee shop
The blazer still smells like cedar. And copper. And forever.
I’m wearing the blazer now as I write this. It’s heavy. Not from the wool, but from the weight of being wanted so completely that no one else is allowed to exist.