The Stalker Turn
Petals on the Desk~~~
Hallo guys,,, This is my second solo story,,, i am trying some new types of plot,, please support me,,,
The office always smelled faintly of burnt coffee and tired ambition.
Jungkook sat slouched in his cubicle, the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing like static against his skull. Numbers filled his screen, columns, and rows that blurred until his eyes burned. He rubbed his temple, sighing. Another spreadsheet. Another meaningless task. Another day in a job that drained him, piece by piece.
At twenty-seven, Jungkook’s life had already fallen into a rhythm so monotonous he could measure time by the clack of his keyboard. He had a good salary, a stable position, and a clean apartment his mother was proud of. But every day felt like moving through grayscale—gray suits, gray walls, gray mornings that bled into gray nights.
Hidden in his bag was a sketchbook. He carried it everywhere, but he hadn’t opened it in months. Once, he dreamed of becoming an artist. He used to lose himself in colors, strokes of pencil and brush, until entire nights vanished. But the world had told him that dreams didn’t pay bills. And so he had chosen stability, locking his passion away like a forgotten heirloom.
His pen clattered against the desk as he reached for it. That’s when he noticed it.
It lay neatly across his keyboard, pale purple petals against the sterile black keys. A hyacinth, tied with a slim white ribbon.
Jungkook blinked. He hadn’t seen anyone approach his desk. His coworkers were still immersed in their screens, faces blank under the office light. Nobody looked his way.
Slowly, he picked it up. The petals were delicate, faintly scented—fresh, as though placed there just moments ago. He turned it over, but there was no note, no explanation. Just the flower.
His heart beat faster, the unease creeping into his chest.
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
A prank? An admirer? A mistake?
*whisper to himself*
When he slipped it carefully into his bag, he told himself not to think about it. He tried to focus on the endless numbers again, but the flower weighed on him more than the deadlines ever could.
By the time the clock struck six, the office was nearly empty. Jungkook gathered his things and stepped out into the cool city evening. Streetlights blinked awake one by one as he crossed the plaza, his briefcase in hand. The world smelled faintly of rain, the pavement slick with leftover drizzle.
But as he walked, he couldn’t shake it—the crawling sensation along his spine.
Eyes. Someone was watching him.
He wasn’t imagining it. He had felt it before. On the subway platform last week, when the sound of footsteps trailed too perfectly behind his own. Outside his apartment a few nights ago, when he thought he saw a figure leaning against the lamppost, only for it to vanish when he turned around.
Jungkook’s pace quickened, his eyes flickering across the crowd. Businessmen with loosened ties. Couples laughing softly. A group of students shoving each other playfully. Ordinary. Forgettable.
Yet his chest tightened. Someone lingered. He could feel it in the air, a presence heavy and deliberate.
As he passed the small florist shop on the corner, he caught it—a figure.
Tall, shoulders broad, standing in front of the window display. The glass reflected the warm yellow of the shop’s lights, obscuring details, but Jungkook saw the tilt of a head, the angle of posture that screamed observation rather than casual browsing.
The figure didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to be uninterested. For a second, Jungkook swore their eyes met, though he couldn’t make out the face clearly.
He didn’t stop to check. He turned his gaze away, pretending not to notice, and walked faster.
By the time he reached his apartment building, his nerves were a mess. He pressed the elevator button too many times, willing the doors to open quickly. His reflection in the chrome doors looked pale, uneasy, lips pressed into a thin line.
When he reached his floor, he exhaled with relief. But the relief didn’t last.
Something was on his doormat.
A folded slip of paper. His name—Jeon Jungkook—written across the front in neat, curling handwriting.
He froze. His neighbors never left him notes. His friends barely texted, let alone left letters.
With stiff fingers, he bent down and picked it up. The paper trembled slightly in his hands as he opened it.
“You look tired today. Don’t forget to rest.”
No signature. No clue. Just that.
The words sent a strange shiver through him. They were too intimate, too observant. Whoever wrote this had been close enough to see him. To study his face. To know his weariness.
The hall was silent. The paper rustled softly between his fingers.
Jungkook’s eyes darted left and right, down the long corridor of identical doors. Nothing. No one.
Still, the feeling lingered—the certainty that someone was watching him even now.
He slipped inside his apartment quickly, locking the door behind him with more force than usual. His briefcase dropped heavily onto the floor. For a long moment, he stood there, leaning against the wood, the note clenched tightly in his hand.
The city outside buzzed faintly through the windows, but inside, his apartment was silent. Too silent.
On the table, he laid out the flower and the note side by side. Pale purple petals. Neat handwriting. Two pieces of a puzzle that made no sense.
Jungkook swallowed hard, his pulse still fast.
It could be harmless. Maybe a secret admirer. Someone shy, someone sweet. Maybe one of his coworkers. Maybe.
But the unease in his chest told him otherwise.
Because this wasn’t coincidence.
And somehow… it was only the beginning.
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
Who could it be!!! Stalk me???
The Watcher__
This story is kinda different from my style,, Please support me
The rain returned that night.
It began as a soft drizzle against Jungkook’s window, a steady rhythm that filled the quiet apartment. He sat on the couch, lights dim, his laptop open but untouched. The hyacinth from earlier rested in a small glass of water beside him, its purple petals illuminated faintly by the city’s glow.
Every few minutes, his eyes flickered to the note on the table.
“You look tired today. Don’t forget to rest.”
The handwriting was elegant. Too careful to be casual.
He’d reread it so many times that the words had lost meaning, yet every glance sent the same chill down his spine. Someone had written that after watching him closely enough to notice his fatigue. Someone who had been there.
He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. Maybe it was harmless. Maybe.
But a part of him — the part that had felt those eyes on him for days — knew better.
The next morning, the world seemed almost normal again. Almost.
Jungkook took the subway to work like always, earbuds in, shoulders hunched, watching people scroll through their phones. The train rocked gently, and for a moment, he let himself pretend the night before hadn’t happened.
Pressed between the advertisements above the opposite seats was a small, folded piece of paper, barely noticeable. But on its surface, in the same curling handwriting as before, were two words:
He froze. The train’s hum faded from his ears.
It couldn’t be—
No one knew about the first note. He hadn’t told a single soul.
The paper fluttered slightly as the air shifted. It wasn’t addressed to anyone, but Jungkook felt it—felt that it was meant for him.
When the train stopped, he didn’t take it. He just got off one station early, heart pounding, looking over his shoulder every few steps.
By the time he reached the office, his nerves were frayed. He sat down, hands trembling slightly as he opened his laptop.
On his desk sat another flower.
This one wasn’t a hyacinth—it was a white tulip, tied with the same thin ribbon.
He glanced around the office. Everyone was in their usual morning chaos: coffee, chatter, phones ringing. No one seemed suspicious.
He picked up the tulip carefully, half-expecting another note hidden beneath, but there was nothing.
Still, the pattern was undeniable now. Whoever it was had access to his workspace. They knew his schedule.
He didn’t tell anyone. How could he? It would sound ridiculous—
“Someone keeps leaving flowers on my desk.” People would laugh. Maybe even think he was lucky.
But Jungkook didn’t feel lucky. He felt hunted.
That evening, he stayed late, pretending to work while the rest of the office slowly emptied. By eight, the floor was silent. Only the low hum of the air conditioner filled the space.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking to the glass wall that looked out into the city night. The lights of Seoul stretched endlessly, neon and alive, but in the reflection of the glass, he thought he saw movement—just a flicker.
He turned sharply. Nothing.
But when he looked again, he saw it—outside, across the street.
Someone stood beneath the streetlight.
Jungkook’s breath caught. The distance and darkness made it impossible to see the face, but the figure didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to check a phone or glance away. Just stood there.
And then—slowly—the figure lifted a hand.
Not a wave. Just… lifted, like a quiet acknowledgment.
Jungkook’s pulse roared in his ears.
He blinked once, twice, and when he looked again, the person was gone. The spot under the streetlight was empty.
He packed up in a hurry, his hands clumsy, his bag strap tangling around his wrist. He didn’t even care if he left files unsaved. He just needed to leave.
Outside, the rain had returned, heavier this time. Jungkook pulled up his hood and hurried down the street, sneakers slapping against the wet pavement. Every few seconds, he glanced behind him.
The city was busy—umbrellas, headlights, distant honks—but there it was again. That unmistakable sensation crawling along his neck.
Someone was following him.
He didn’t see them at first, just a shape reflected in shop windows, always a few paces behind. The reflection blurred with raindrops, but the outline was clear.
Tall. Dark coat. Umbrella tilted low.
Jungkook quickened his steps. Turned a corner. Another. The reflection vanished for a second—then reappeared.
His heart hammered. He could taste the fear now, bitter in his throat.
He turned one last corner, half-running, and pressed himself into a small alley between a convenience store and a bakery, chest rising and falling rapidly. He waited.
Footsteps approached. Slow. Measured.
Through the rain, Jungkook could see a shadow at the mouth of the alley. The figure hesitated—then turned away.
For a moment, just before the stranger disappeared into the night, Jungkook caught a glimpse of something.
Tucked into the pocket of their coat.
He didn’t sleep that night.
Every sound—the creak of the floorboards, the whisper of wind—made him flinch. The flower and the notes sat on his table, mocking him with their silence.
He thought about calling the police, but what would he say?
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
Someone left me flowers?
I saw a man with a flower in his pocket?
He spent the night sketching instead—something he hadn’t done in months. His hand moved on instinct, pencil scraping over paper. When he finally looked down, his stomach dropped.
He had drawn the same figure he’d seen outside his office—the tall silhouette, the umbrella, the tilt of the head.
And beneath the outline, he’d unconsciously written two words:
The rain had stopped by dawn, but the feeling hadn’t.
When Jungkook left for work the next morning, another flower waited at his door.
A white tulip again. No note this time.
Just petals—soft, pure, and trembling faintly in the morning breeze.
The Anonymous Notes
The morning began like any other — gray sky, gray coffee, gray Jungkook.
He sat at his desk, the glow of the monitor washing his face in dull blue light. His coworkers buzzed around him, laughing about weekend plans, scrolling through their phones, gossiping.
But Jungkook couldn’t focus on any of it. His mind was miles away, still caught between unease and disbelief.
Another flower had arrived that morning — this time, placed perfectly on his apartment windowsill.
He hadn’t even opened the window last night.
The petals were dry from the night air, a soft pink carnation this time, with dew still clinging to the edges.
And under it, taped gently to the glass, was a note.
“Do you still dream of colors, Jungkook?”
He’d stared at it for a long time before tearing it down.
Now, sitting in the fluorescent haze of the office, the question echoed in his mind.
How could they know? How could anyone know about his art? He hadn’t painted in years. He hadn’t even told anyone at work that he used to.
By lunchtime, he couldn’t take it anymore.
He slipped out of the office and crossed the street, heading straight for the small florist shop.
It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it — he passed it every day, tucked neatly between a café and a bookstore. The display window was crowded with blooms: tulips, roses, daisies, and hanging ivy that trailed like ribbons. There was always soft music playing inside, something calm, almost nostalgic.
The shop had a sign, hand-painted in elegant cursive:
He’d always admired it in passing, the way colors spilled through the window like a painting come alive.
But today, his reason for stepping inside was different.
He hesitated at the door, pulse pounding. Maybe this was stupid. But he had to check.
The small bell chimed as he entered.
Warm air wrapped around him — fragrant, alive. It was such a sharp contrast from his sterile office that it almost felt like stepping into another world.
No one was at the counter. Only the faint rustle of leaves and the soft hum of the music.
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
Hello?
*he called quietly*
A moment later, a voice answered from the back room. Deep, smooth, almost melodic.
Florist
Give me just a second.
The sound froze him. It was… warm, but something about it made his skin prickle.
A heartbeat later, someone appeared from behind the curtain — tall, wearing a soft beige apron dusted with petals and pollen, dark hair falling slightly over his forehead.
His face was partially shadowed, but Jungkook caught a glimpse of soft features and eyes that felt oddly familiar, though he couldn’t place why.
Florist
Sorry, I was trimming stems. Can I help you?
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
I… uh, yeah. I just—
Words tangled. How was he supposed to ask,
‘Hey, are you the one leaving flowers at my door?’
He cleared his throat, pretending to glance around.
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
I wanted to, um… buy a flower.
The man tilted his head, an amused sparkle in his gaze.
Florist
Any particular kind?
Jungkook looked over the counter. Rows of colors stared back — purples, yellows, soft whites. His eyes landed on a familiar bloom.
A hyacinth.
He hesitated before pointing.
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
That one. The purple one.
The florist smiled again, gentle and knowing, as if he understood something Jungkook didn’t.
Florist
*He reached for the hyacinth, his movements graceful, deliberate*
Do you want me to wrap it for you?
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
Yes, please,
As the florist turned to wrap the flower, Jungkook’s eyes roamed the shop — and froze.
On the side shelf, tucked beside a vase of carnations, was a small, black notebook. The cover was plain except for faint lettering pressed into it.
He stepped a little closer, squinting.
The words were written in gold ink:
For every face worth remembering.
Something in him went cold.
The florist returned, holding out the wrapped hyacinth.
Jungkook quickly stepped back, taking it with a small nod.
Florist
No problem
*the man said softly*
Hyacinths symbolize sincerity. Did you know that?
Jungkook forced a weak smile.
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
I didn’t
The florist’s eyes lingered on him for a second too long — curious, thoughtful — before he looked away.
Florist
You seem like someone who could use a little color in their life.
Jungkook’s throat tightened.
Jeon Jungkook/ ML
Yeah… maybe.
He paid, muttered a polite goodbye, and left.
But as the door closed behind him and the city air hit his face, the strange feeling didn’t fade.
The warmth of the shop felt replaced by something else — an awareness that the distance between him and the unknown watcher was shrinking.
That night, Jungkook couldn’t concentrate on anything.
He left the hyacinth on the kitchen counter, untouched.
He tried to read, watch something, scroll through his phone — but his eyes kept darting to the window.
At 10:37 p.m., he finally gave up and went to bed.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, the day replaying in his mind like static.
The flower shop. The man’s voice. The notebook title. The familiar feeling in those eyes.
He was just drifting off when he heard it — a soft tap tap tap against the window.
The curtains swayed slightly from the night breeze, but the tapping continued — deliberate, rhythmic.
He got up, feet soundless on the floor. When he reached the window, he hesitated before pulling the curtain back.
Outside, the street below was empty. Only the faint shimmer of rain on the asphalt.
But taped to the outside of the glass was another note.
It flapped slightly in the wind, pressed by the rain, the ink smudged but readable:
“You looked beautiful under the office lights today.”
Jungkook stepped back, his heart hammering so hard it hurt.
He locked the window. Pulled the curtains shut. Sat down on the floor, his breath shallow.
Whoever it was — they knew where he lived, where he worked, how he looked.
And somehow, after visiting that flower shop today, it felt like the stranger’s shadow had only drawn closer.
He didn’t notice until morning that something else had been left at his door.
But this time, it wasn’t a tulip or a hyacinth.
It was a single white rose.
Fresh. Fragrant.
And on the ribbon tied around its stem were two handwritten words — the same delicate script as always:
Download NovelToon APP on App Store and Google Play
