By Monday morning, Arthur was gone. Without him, the bleakness of my dull apartment life became more apparent. I had ways of keeping busy, and wouldn't have called myself lonely, per se, but I was dependent on Arthur's presence. The necessity of such a connection was subtle, but indefinitely fixed—a harmonious relationship.

I knew exactly where he was, and I knew exactly what I needed to do to retrieve him, but I was having trouble bringing myself to step beyond my front door. I paced along a stretch of linoleum tile in my cramped kitchen, before finding the resolution required. I pursed my lips, crept outside, and knocked on Samuel's door. I felt a little jolt run down my spine as it opened.

"Vaughn," Samuel nodded, acknowledging me with a mellow happiness. "Would you mind coming in? I need to show you something."

"I don't want to be a bother. I just need to get Arthur."

"You couldn't be a bother if you tried. Would you please come in?"

I swayed, and then stepped into his house. I hissed at Arthur, who was lounging on Samuel's couch, and he skipped over to me, rubbing between my legs as I tried to walk.

Samuel led me to his living room, where a single bookshelf was tucked away in the corner. He nodded toward one of the shelves near the ceiling, and I hesitantly shuffled over, peering at the row of books there.

At first, I didn't understand what he was trying to show me.

"I lied before. I'm sorry for that, but I thought the truth might have been bizarre upon our first meeting. I haven't been here for three weeks. I've actually been here for a year. I already knew your name, as well."

My mouth opened slightly, as I ran my fingers across the crude binding of twelve particular books.

"I didn't know how to approach you," he continued. "I was ignorant, hoping you might have the time or desire to notice me. But after a year of not having you realize that I was even alive, I decided I should finally make my presence known."

In front of me stood all the work that I had ever created—a timeline of my new life, as an author, and as a painter—ordered by date of publication.

"I enjoy everything you've made to the point of compulsion. I moved here to meet you, Vaughn. I moved here to meet you, and it took me this long to actually go through with it," he said, gently laughing to himself in bashfulness.

"Is this a joke?" I murmured. I faced him, staring at him with cold, hollow eyes. "If this is some sort of sick joke—If you're a crazed fanatic—If you've got rope and binding somewhere—I will not be that man in the movie Misery, so if you're going to break my legs, and force me to rewrite something to your liking, it's going to have to be—"

Samuel brought a hand to his face, his fingers pressing lightly against his forehead, his palm coming down over one of his eyes, as if he wanted to hide. I could tell he was at a loss for words, perhaps even a bit embarrassed. But more than that, he was also openly laughing at me.

"This is everything but funny!" I shouted, aware that he was simply playing games. "You might think it's fun to heckle a writer who's not very popular or skilled, who's trying to do the right thing—do what he absolutely enjoys—but it's not."

I brushed past him, and Arthur meowed upsettingly, clawing at my ankles.

"Vaughn," Samuel said, walking toward me as I reached for the door knob. "Vaughn, forgive me. I meant no offense. You may not be well-known in the realm of literature, but I have no doubt that you are skilled. I had no intention of insulting you."

"Arthur! Let's go!" I snapped, opening the front door.

But Arthur wouldn't budge. That damn cat!

Samuel took me by the wrist, and slammed the door shut. With his back against it, he stood before me, blocking my path. "Vaughn," he said softly.

"What, Samuel!?" I fidgeted, frightened by his vice grip. He must have noticed my discomfort, because he released me immediately.

"My laughter was not a reaction to your line of work. It was the way you jumped to such brutal conclusions, even throwing in a movie reference—which I did get, if you were wondering—and then getting all angry and flustered like that. I found it… charming."

What did he mean? 'Charming.' I was not charming. The implications of that word frightened me more so than his blatant obsession with my books.

"What do you want from me?" I asked loudly.

I caught a blush sweep across his cheeks, and I stumbled over Arthur, nearly falling to the floor as his body tangoed with my legs.

Samuel sighed. "You are surprisingly more clueless than I had originally imagined you would be."

I frowned. "Why do you have all my books? Why did you show them to me? What could have possibly possessed you to carry out this string of events—starting with finding out where I was living, and then relocating to be near me? What was all that formality for, if you already knew me?"

"I didn't want to scare you off."

"Well, that worked well, didn't it!?"

"I promise you that everything I've done or said—and everything I'm going to say—is in sincerity."

I crossed my arms, still suspicious of him. "Even so, you can't blame me for assuming that you were a stalker, or something of that sort."

"I'm glad you no longer think that."

"I never said—" I began, indignant.

"I admired your books, Vaughn. That's how this all started. When I read the first one, it moved me in a way that I hadn't felt for a very long time. It was like that special moment while watching my favorite scene in a movie, or while playing a meaningful song, and then pushing repeat, replaying it over and over again. Your words, your art—your flow—it dazzled me. I was bewildered by how elegantly you put together your work, and I knew that each book was an honest masterpiece, not created with any expectations for how it would fare after leaving your hands. You wanted to share what you did for the sake of sharing, and that was that. No egocentrism or underlying scheming involved."

"Samuel, that's very kind of you, but—"

"Each word I read made me feel you."

"Sam—"

"Each word was your emotion—raw—flying out of the page," he murmured, his hands making grand, sweeping movements, "and straight into my heart."

"Samuel, you're being far too poetic for me to—"

"I thought you would understand. How I appreciate you. How much. I thought you would understand why I keep all those books, and re-read line by line; why I touch the dried ink of your illustrations to feel your sweat and your tears; why I explain myself in metaphor and song like this, even if it appears theatrical, because—you know it isn't, Vaughn."

His hands were shaking, much like my own. I understood. I closed my eyes, because I understood perfectly, no matter how much I didn't want to.

"Samuel… you can't possibly…?" I wondered aloud.

"Don't brush me aside. Don't brush this aside. That's what I want from you, Vaughn," he whispered gently. "I want to know you."

Echoing that last sentence in my head, I exited his house as quickly as possible, not daring to look back.