Yandere Blonde Blazer | 2027 |

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.

On the back, in elegant handwriting: “He touched your hand once. I was patient. Don’t make me patient again.”

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. yandere blonde blazer

The second time, I found it hanging on my dorm room door. No note. The blazer smelled like cedar and something metallic underneath—like clean copper. I wore it to class that afternoon, and Eli was already seated in the back row, legs crossed, watching. He smiled when he saw me. A slow, possessive curve of his lips.

The blazer still smells like cedar. And copper. And forever. I’m wearing the blazer now as I write this

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

By the fifth time, I tried to give it back. “Really, Eli, I have my own jacket—” On the back, in elegant handwriting: “He touched

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.