A man in black was following me as I was making my way home late at night. I swiftly grabbed an umbrella from my bag and struck him in the head, but the stranger then did something totally out of the ordinary 
It was about eleven, and I was strolling down a deserted street. My footsteps reverberated off the walls of old buildings, and the lighting flickered weakly.
I began to go more quickly, holding my bag close to my chest and gazing back all the time. He was always there, only a few paces behind me, whenever I looked. A man wearing a dark sweatshirt with the hood drawn down over his face.
I initially assumed it was merely a coincidence; perhaps we were headed in the same way. However, he turned precisely where I did at every intersection.
I attempted to accelerate, and he did the same. He halted a few meters away from me as I paused in front of a storefront window, feigning to look at something.
Then I became quite afraid. My mind was racing with ideas on who to call and where to flee. My phone had died. There were no people on the street.
In the hopes that he would continue to go straight, I turned into a little alley. However, I heard heavy footsteps behind me a few seconds later.
He was drawing nearer and nearer. My fingers were shaking as I held on to my bag’s strap. I kept thinking the same thing: I won’t allow him to harm me if he gets closer.
Abruptly, I spun around. Our eyes briefly locked, icy and cautious.
I yelled out, “Why are you following me?”
The stranger remained silent.
Then, unable to contain myself any longer, I turned abruptly and took out my folding umbrella. I used all of my strength to strike him in the head before he could speak. He grabbed his hood and stumbled back. However, the man did something wholly unexpected at that precise moment.
“Why are you hitting me?” he yelled, perplexed.
You’re following me, but why? “I’ll call the police now!” I screamed, attempting to sound calm.
— Hold on. He lowered his eyes and whispered, “I just wanted to get to know you.”
I yelled, “Then why were you following me?” You may have simply approached and made a statement.
Like a youngster caught in the act, he whispered softly, “I… I was too shy.”
I didn’t speak again. With my heart racing in my temples, I spun around and fled. I didn’t even turn around to check if he was pursuing me.
I haven’t seen him since that evening. But occasionally, as I make my way home late at night, I can’t help but wonder: was he merely interested in getting to know me? Or did he fear that I would contact the police?
