Past stuff about my Stalker but make it extreme

I need to get this off my chest, because god damn.
I’m an 18-year-old guy who never really had much luck with relationships.

Not because of breakups or drifting apart, but because the people I got involved with often turned out to be cheaters, overly sexual to a point I wasn’t comfortable with, or, worst of all—stalkers.

I’ll leave the cheaters and “too much too fast” people aside for now. What really stuck with me were the stalkers, because that experience changed me in ways I didn’t expect—and not in a good way.

I’ve had around four stalkers, but the one that left the deepest impact was actually the only person I ended up dating. At first, he seemed like such a kind soul. He came from a rough household, but he was gentle, calm, loved quiet music, and listened when I talked—even though it was just about my favorite games or books. That softness pulled me in, and over time I fell for his kindness. I wanted to give something back, to help him through his struggles the way he’d supported me.

We got together pretty quickly, but things unraveled fast.

We got together so
I started opening up more, sharing things I hadn’t told him before—and his response was very much always, “Oh, I know.” He showed me just how many of my social media accounts he had found. It was no surprise at first since I mostly use the same name for everything but some were under old usernames I hadn’t used in years, on platforms I’d completely abandoned. At first, it was just… creepy. But I brushed it off.

Later, though, he admitted outright that he had been stalking me—and then confessed he fantasized about cutting me open, even killing me. That’s when everything changed. The gentle, sweet person I thought I knew was suddenly gone, and I didn’t recognize who I was with anymore.

I tried to rationalize it as trauma, tried to be understanding, but after all the talk of killing me, the paranoia took over. He started ghosting me on and off, and eventually I had to leave. I couldn’t figure out what he really wanted—love, or something far darker.

Looking back, I was still pretty young, so maybe I was scared easier than I would now. But his words stayed with me. Even years later, I find myself fixated on stories about stalking—not just because of him, but because of others too.

I hate that it’s left such a mark, but I guess in a way, obsessing over it is my way of coping.