I’m twenty-four, work in marketing, and I live alone in a flat in Manchester. That’s probably important context for what happened. I mean, I’d been on plenty of dating app dates before—mostly awkward, sometimes fun, never particularly memorable. So when I matched with David, I didn’t think much of it. He seemed normal enough. Nice smile in his photos. Said he worked in IT. We messaged for maybe two weeks before he suggested meeting for coffee.
The café he picked was this little place near Piccadilly Gardens. I got there first, ordered a latte, and sat by the window. When he walked in, he looked exactly like his pictures, which was already a win. He smiled, waved, got himself a cappuccino, and sat down across from me.
“Sarah,” he said, still smiling. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“You too,” I said. I was already thinking this might actually go well.
We chatted about normal things for the first twenty minutes. Work. The weather. How rubbish the Northern Rail service was. All completely ordinary. Then he leaned back in his chair and said, casually, like he was commenting on the temperature, “So how’s Pickle doing these days?”
I felt something shift in my chest. “Sorry?”
“Your cat. Pickle. You’ve had him, what, three years now?”
I stared at him. “I… I don’t think I mentioned my cat.”
“Didn’t you?” He tilted his head, still smiling. “I must have seen it on your profile.”
But I knew I hadn’t put that on my profile. I’d specifically kept my bio vague—just my age, my job, a few interests. Nothing about Pickle. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe I had mentioned it in our messages and forgotten.
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “Three years in January.”
“That’s nice,” he said. “Bet he loves that spot by your bedroom window. The one that gets the afternoon sun.”
My heart dropped. “How do you know where—”
“Lucky guess.” He shrugged, took a sip of his cappuccino. “Most cats like windows, don’t they?”
I should have left then. Looking back, I realize that was the moment. But I didn’t want to seem crazy. I didn’t want to be rude. So I stayed, even though my hands were shaking slightly as I picked up my latte.
“So,” he continued, “your grandmother’s maiden name was Whitmore, right? That’s quite a distinctive name.”
The cup nearly slipped from my fingers. “I never told you that.”
“Sure you did.” His smile didn’t waver. “We talked about family, remember?”
“No,” I said firmly. “We didn’t.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Your flat’s nice, by the way. I like what you’ve done with it. The blue sofa was a good choice. And that print you’ve got above it—the one with the abstract flowers. Very you.”
Something wasn’t right. Something was very, very wrong.
“I need to go,” I said, standing up so quickly my chair scraped loudly against the floor. A few people looked over.
“Already?” David stood too, blocking my path slightly. Not aggressively, just… there. “But we’re having such a nice time.”
“Move,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Just one more thing.” He pulled out his phone, swiped a few times, then turned the screen toward me. “I wanted to show you these.”
I felt my heart pound so hard I thought I might be sick.
They were photos. Of me. In my flat. In my bedroom. Asleep in my bed. Photo after photo, taken from different angles. Some from weeks ago—I recognized the pyjamas I’d worn. Some more recent. In one, Pickle was curled up next to my head.
“How—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. My legs felt weak.
“You should really lock your windows, Sarah,” he said softly. “Ground floor flats are so easy to access. I mean, I’ve been visiting for a while now. You sleep so soundly. It’s actually quite sweet.”
I tried to scream, but my throat had closed up. The café felt too small, too quiet. Why wasn’t anyone noticing this?
“Don’t make a scene,” he whispered, stepping closer. “I know where you live. Obviously. I know your routine. I know you take the 192 bus to work. I know you get home around six-thirty most nights. I know you order Thai food every Friday from that place on Wilmslow Road. I know everything, Sarah.”
I shoved past him—actually shoved him—and ran. Just bolted out of the café, not caring who saw, not caring about my bag still on the chair. I ran until my lungs burned, pulled out my phone, and called 999.
The police came. They were sympathetic. They took my statement, looked at the photos I’d managed to screenshot before David had pulled his phone away. They found his profile on the app, but the name was fake, the photos stolen from someone else’s social media. They searched my flat and found scratches on my bedroom window frame—signs of forced entry. They dusted for prints. They told me to stay with friends. They said they’d patrol the area.
But they never found him.
I moved three weeks later. Different city entirely. Leeds. I changed my phone number, deleted all my social media, got a flat on the third floor with deadbolts and a security system. I’ve never used a dating app since. Obviously.
To this day, I still check under my bed before sleeping. I still wake up sometimes, certain I heard a noise, certain someone’s watching. I’ll never forget the way he smiled when he showed me those photos—calm, almost proud, like he was sharing holiday snaps.
And sometimes, late at night, I wonder if he knows where I live now. If he’s just being patient. Waiting.
I wish I’d trusted my instincts the moment he said Pickle’s name. I should have known. But looking back never changes what happened.
I just hope he’s not looking forward.
