Yandere Blonde | Blazer

That night, I found a small velvet box in the left pocket. Inside wasn’t a ring. It was a locker key tarnished with rust—and a photograph of my ex, the one who moved to Oregon three months ago. In the photo, he’s smiling at a coffee shop. In the photo, someone has drawn a red circle around his temple.

Eli is standing outside my window. He’s not looking at me. He’s sharpening something small and silver in the rain.

The blazer still smells like cedar. And copper. And forever.

By the fifth time, I tried to give it back. “Really, Eli, I have my own jacket—”

I’m wearing the blazer now as I write this. It’s heavy. Not from the wool, but from the weight of being wanted so completely that no one else is allowed to exist.

Here’s a short piece based on the prompt “yandere blonde blazer”: The first time Eli let me borrow his blazer, I thought it was an accident. He draped it over my shoulders after I shivered in the campus library’s arctic AC, and I smiled, grateful. “Thanks,” I whispered. He just blinked, those pale blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity I mistook for kindness.