The Relationship I Thought Was Over

A true story authored by an anonymous survivor

I met him when I was 18, and it started in a way that felt almost ordinary for that stage of life.

I’d recently ended a different relationship, and he reached out to me on Facebook. We had a loose connection through someone I’d dated before, and at the time, that made it feel familiar enough that I didn’t think twice about replying. We started talking, and I thought he was cute, and honestly, that was most of what mattered to me back then. It felt exciting to have someone interested, and I wasn’t looking deeply at whether that interest was healthy.

Not long after that, he started coming over to my house. I was living alone in a small place, and it turned into one of those situations where he showed up and just… stayed. It happened fast. It didn’t feel like a big decision at the time because it wasn’t framed as one. He was there more and more, and I didn’t push back.

For about a month, things felt normal. We talked, we hung out, and nothing about it screamed “danger.” If there were early warning signs, I either didn’t see them yet or I didn’t understand what they could turn into.

Then one night, he had a friend over at my house, and they got really drunk. And, the mood shifted hard.

He started being mean to me — verbally, aggressively — saying things that made my stomach drop. I remember feeling unsafe right away. Something in me knew this wasn’t okay, and that it wasn’t going to get better.

So, I told him to leave.

He wasn’t physically violent, but the way he spoke to me that night was enough for me to know I didn’t want this in my life. But he wouldn’t go away. The next day - and the days after - he wouldn’t stop texting me. He swung between extremes: apologies, insults, blame, begging, anger, sometimes all in the same string of messages. It was exhausting, and it was concerning. I told him I didn’t want to talk to him anymore.

And, then, like a lot of people do when they’re trying to untangle something messy, I softened. I let him come back around briefly, with boundaries like “no drinking,” because I wanted to believe it had been a one-off situation.

But the patterns didn’t stop.

He kept showing red flags — saying strange things, acting unpredictably, making me feel like I had to manage his moods. He also started showing up at my work just to hang around. It felt like he wanted access to me at all times, and it wasn’t romantic or flattering. It was suffocating.

Eventually, I hit a point where I just knew: I didn’t even like him, I didn’t feel safe, and I could see this escalating. So I ended it and told him to go.

He didn’t take that well.

He kept messaging. He still had stuff at my house because he’d basically moved in without it ever being a real conversation. I tried to handle it in the simplest way possible: I put his things outside and told him to come get them. He kept dragging it out — asking me to bring them to him, asking if he could come over for them, using his belongings as a reason to keep contact open.

After weeks of that, I threw his stuff away. That’s when things started happening that, at the time, I didn’t fully recognize for what they were.

I would walk out to my car, which was parked under a tree, and there would be feathers and blood on my windshield. The first time, I genuinely thought a bird had fallen and died. It sounds ridiculous now, but I didn’t go straight to “someone is doing this to me.” I was young, and I thought he was done because he’d stopped responding to me.

Then it happened again.

Still, I didn’t connect it. I truly believed the relationship was over and that he’d moved on.

The moment everything snapped into focus happened when I stayed the night at a friend’s house. I came home the next morning to feed my dogs, walked inside, and immediately noticed my bedroom door was closed.

I never closed it. My dogs went in and out of that room all the time.

When I opened the door, I was shocked to find my room destroyed. My mattress had been knocked off the box spring, drawers were pulled out, and one of my bedroom windows had been busted out completely.

That was the moment I knew it was him. Not because I saw him, but because of the precision. It was only my bedroom. 

I called the non-emergency police line, and two officers came out, walked through the house with me, and helped me understand how the break-in happened. He’d gone around the side of the house to the back, to the part where my bedroom was - where he wouldn’t be seen. He broke the glass, removed part of the window insert, and climbed in. They even found a footprint where he’d hoisted himself up.

The officers asked if anything was stolen, because that would change the charge. But nothing was taken. Not my laptop, not my DVDs, not anything of value. That detail mattered, because it reinforced what this really was: not theft, but violation.

That police report was filed on January 28, 2012, after the break-in the night of January 27. And once the report was taken, that was basically it. No one went to talk to him. No follow-up that I ever saw. I was told to call 911 if he came back or if there were more problems.

Then the timing got even more chilling.

Looking back at my messages later, I saw he hadn’t contacted me since January 12. Then, the day after I called the police — January 29 — he messaged me again. He said he had a question and asked me to call him. I told him no, and that he could message me instead, because I wanted everything in writing.

He immediately pivoted back to his stuff, trying to reopen that door. I told him I’d thrown it away, and he got angry again. I told him to leave me alone or I’d get a restraining order.

He stopped messaging. But he didn’t stop showing up.

A couple nights later, I finally went back to my house after staying with a friend. It was late — around 11:00 PM — and I was sitting in my bedroom when I heard him outside. He was scraping something along the side of the house and yelling.

I froze.

It’s hard to describe how fast your brain starts calculating the worst possibilities when you’re inside your home and someone you’re afraid of is right outside it. I muted the TV, sat perfectly still, and texted a friend. They told me to leave immediately and go somewhere else.

And I did — without calling 911.

That decision still sticks with me, because the police had literally told me to call. But in that moment, I convinced myself I’d be “bothering” them, like what was happening wasn’t serious enough.

It was serious enough.

I remember the walk from my front door to my car as one of the scariest moments of my life, because I couldn’t see where he was. I just knew he was there. I got into my car, locked the doors, started it, and drove away as fast as I could.

I spent days staying at my friend’s house. I was terrified he would come back to my home or show up at my work. I looked over my shoulder constantly, scared he would be there waiting for me. That fear didn’t fade quickly - it lasted for months.

I did try to get a restraining order, because I was scared he would keep escalating. But the process required information I didn’t have - his address, social security number, things like that. I didn’t know where he lived. I didn’t even know if he had a stable place to live. So I couldn’t move forward with it.

Thankfully, he never came around again. He didn’t contact me again either. To this day, I don’t know why. All I know for sure is that I was grateful.

Even with it “over,” it didn’t feel over in my body for a long time. It took time to stop being scared at home. I ended up having roommates move in because being alone didn’t feel possible anymore. Even now, 14 years later, I’m more on edge than I used to be - always aware of what people are capable of.

That awareness is what makes it easier to look back now and see the things I wish I’d done differently.

What I wish I’d done differently

I saved this part for the end because I don’t want hindsight to drown out the reality of what it feels like when you’re in it. But looking back, there are a few things I wish I’d done differently.

I wish I had called 911 the night he came back to my house and was outside scraping and yelling. I wasn’t bothering anyone. That was exactly what I’d been told to do. I know now that it’s okay to call the police when you’re scared.

I wish I had documented more - every weird incident, every message, every time something didn’t make sense. Documentation matters, and it can help show patterns over time.

I also wish I’d pushed harder for a formal paper trail. Not because I think it would have fixed everything, but because one of the most frustrating realities about stalking is that victims are often expected to prove fear, prove intent, prove a pattern - while they’re actively trying to survive it. Having that documentation would have helped if I’d continued with the restraining order process or pushed for further investigation.

A paper trail also matters beyond your own case. At 18, I wasn’t thinking about whether he could go on to hurt someone else. I was focused on surviving and moving on. Today, I understand how important it is to document behavior so there’s a record, especially when patterns repeat.

If you’re reading this and something feels familiar

A lot of people picture stalking as a stranger hiding in the bushes. Sometimes it looks like that. But often it looks like someone you dated. Someone who still wants access. Someone who uses “getting my stuff” or “I just want to talk” as a reason to stay connected. Someone who shows up at your job, your house, your favorite places, and makes it clear they aren’t going to respect your boundaries.

Stalking is often part of a larger pattern - control, intimidation, harassment, monitoring - especially after a relationship ends. All of it is concerning, and all of it deserves to be taken seriously.

If you think you might be dealing with stalking, start with the basics:

• Trust your instincts, even if you can’t prove what’s happening yet.

• If you’re in immediate danger, call 911.

• Document every incident you can - dates, times, what happened, screenshots, photos, voicemails.

• Consider safety planning with an advocate who understands stalking dynamics, because safety plans should reflect the reality of your life, not a generic checklist.

• And if someone you care about tells you they think they’re being stalked, take them seriously. Believe them, and help them think through options without pressuring them into a single “right” response.

For more education on how stalking can show up as part of a larger pattern in relationships, SPARC offers practical, victim-centered tools, including guidance on documentation, safety planning, and support options.

If there’s one thing I want people to take away from my story, it’s this: trust your gut, even when you can’t fully explain why something feels wrong yet. Discomfort is information. Fear is information.

If someone is crossing your boundaries, it’s okay to stand up for yourself and say it out loud - to friends, to family, to advocates, to law enforcement if you need to. You are not being dramatic. You are not overreacting. You deserve to feel safe in your own home, in your own body, and in your own life.

Most of all, remember this: your instincts are valid, your boundaries matter, and you are worth protecting.