I called 112. I told them she had taken too many pills, that they only had to make sure she was safe, that they had to contact her family.
Three police officers came. One of them treated me as a stalker from start to finish. “How do you know she took them? Were you there?” I kept saying the same thing. Just make sure she’s safe.
Two days later I called again. The person who answered spoke before I had finished. “You are suspected of stalking. The victim is safe. Do not contact her.” When I asked whether they had checked with her family, they said they couldn’t confirm that. The line went dead.
Meanwhile, her account on the messaging app sent my mother a message. It said she was at the police station and was going to report her son as a stalker. She was not someone who would say that to my mother. That day I was sure. Whoever was speaking in her name was not her.
At lunch the day after my birthday, while I was eating with my parents, she called. It was her old voice, as if nothing had happened. She seemed to want to talk about the concert. I couldn’t make sense of any of it, so I asked her to call me back in an hour.
An hour later, instead of her, a number much like the police station’s called me. “You are suspected of stalking, so do not call her under any circumstances.” I asked. She just called me first. Who are you? This is being recorded, isn’t it? That night, the moment when only one lantern is left went by without the two of us.
At midnight that day, my older friend called. “Be careful. Worry about yourself. Look after your mental health.” I thanked him. Whether it was concern or a warning, once again I couldn’t tell.
The next day I typed my name into the criminal case lookup system, where you can find the cases the police have opened. Zero cases. Against me, there was no such thing as a stalking charge.