A brief story about a quite strange and tiny insect who stayed for a while - unrequited obsession.

He was stuck between the door and the wall of my bedroom when I found him. I understood soon enough that he was yearning for my blood, and he very much likely has been yearning for my blood for a while now. It was a quite strange and tiny insect and he was flying all over my studio, gathering pieces of information about me, probably assuming that, the closer he got to me, the closer he would get to my blood. He was wrong. I knew he was wrong, as I ran away from him, sticking to the opposite side of whichever wall he landed on. I got tired quite fast.

He is been here for a while now and I am guessing he deserves a name. I decided his name was “Frank”, I named it after Sinatra. He always rests on his poster.

Like every other end of the day, here I am, reading in my bed with my salt lamp by my side. Frank is attracted to the coziness of that light, or perhaps to me, I can’t tell yet. As I turn the pages, I feel watched, I feel seen.

As sunrises and sunsets go by, he becomes part of my routine.

He stares at me from my tiny balcony’s glass as I make breakfast. I am furious and I want him to leave, but he stays, despite my uncertain longing for loneliness.

He stays, as I lay on my floor, in silence.

He stays, as I stand up and work on a warm meal with the gentle company of Chet Baker in the background.

He stays, as I look for some paracetamol in the drawer at the corner. I have a terrible headache.

He stayed, I noticed the following day, coming back home after a long shift at work.

Frank is part of my home now, and he is still hungry for my blood.

Although I still have the instinct to move away whenever he comes close, I think I could get used to having him around. After all, spring is near.

As sunrises and sunsets go by, he becomes a part of me. I learned to know him: between 5 and 11 a.m., he follows the sun, moving from the left corner of my window to the right side. He is always hungry for the light. He follows the light so intensively that it almost makes me believe he might be light himself. He could be a firefly.

Between 11 and 17, he sits still in the right corner of my window. From 17 until late at night, he walks up to the roof.

I know he surveils my home whenever I close my eyes. He listens and observes as I pronounce whole arguments out loud - mostly against myself, while rolling on the pavement. Fifteen vinyls have to be surrounding me as I lay on the floor, for me to realize another day is gone.

I look up. Frank appears to be gone, too. I might have killed him. I might have.

I rushed to open the door. I look for him everywhere, on every floor, and in every corner of my building. Did he escape? Did I kill him?

I might never know. I close the door and turn around. While I was looking for Frank, I forgot to turn off the record player. That album ended a while ago, and I am only hearing it now.