My gf says I dress too “straight” to be bi, and wants me to cut my hair to prove it.

The Break-in and Stalking Campaign

But I was completely wrong because a couple days after I came home from work exhausted after a long shift. I unlocked my door, walked in, and froze.

Shannon was sprawled on my couch, scrolling through her phone with her legs kicked up on the couch like she owned the place.

How did you get in here? I asked, my heart pounding.

I changed the locks. There was no way she should have been able to enter.

Shannon smiled sweetly. Your landlord remembers me. I told him I lost my key.

The revelation made my blood run cold.

My landlord, Mr. Peterson, is an elderly man who barely remembers my name most days. Shannon had clearly manipulated him. She’d been planning this.

You need to leave, I said firmly, though inside I was terrified. This is breaking and entering.

Shannon laughed. Breaking? The door was unlocked for me.

And I’m not entering anywhere I don’t belong. I back toward the door, phone in hand.

Leave now or I’m calling the police. She stood up slowly.

You wouldn’t do that to me. We love each other.

We dated for four months and you spent most of that time trying to change me, I shot back.

That’s not love. She took a step toward me and I noticed something in her hand.

My spare key. The one I keep hidden under the potted plant for emergencies.

She must have seen me use it at some point. I’m moving back in, Shannon announced.

I’ve already brought some of my stuff. The rest is in my car.

I glanced around and noticed a duffel bag in the corner. Had she been here while I was at work?

The thought made my skin crawl. I keep the door open behind me, my finger hovering over the emergency call button on my phone.

Shannon, this isn’t healthy. What you’re doing is wrong. Please leave now.

Her expression darkened. The sweet facade dropping entirely.

You think you can just dump me after everything I’ve done for you? That’s when I noticed something else.

My apartment looked different. Some of my framed photos were missing, and my dresser was more empty than usual.

Had she been taking my things? What have you done with my stuff? I demanded.

Shannon smiled, just making room for mine. I stepped further into the apartment, keeping my eyes fixed on Shannon.

My heart was racing as I scanned the room to see what else she might have taken or messed with. The living room looked almost staged.

My feminine touches like the floral throw pillows were gone, replaced with dark minimalist ones I’d never seen before.

“You need to get out,” I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is my apartment.”

“You have no right to be here.” Shannon rolled her eyes and flopped back down on the couch.

God, you’re so dramatic. This is our place now. I already told you that.

I noticed more of her stuff tucked into corners of the room, a leather jacket draped over my reading chair, a pair of boots by the TV stand. How long had she been here?

The thought made me feel sick. I’m calling the police, I said, raising my phone. I wasn’t bluffing this time.

Shannon’s expression changed instantly. She jumped up from the couch and quickly closed the distance between us.

Before I could react, she grabbed my wrist, squeezing until I dropped my phone. “Don’t be stupid,” she hissed.

Her grip tightened, and I winced in pain. “What are you going to tell them?

That your girlfriend is in your apartment? That we had a little fight.”

I yanked my arm away. Ex-girlfriend and this is breaking and entering.

Shannon laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. Mr. Peterson literally let me in.

I have a key. Good luck with that. My mind raced through options.

I needed to get her out, but I also needed to stay safe. Shannon was unpredictable and right now she was blocking my path to the door.

I’m going to stay with a friend tonight, I said, trying to sound casual.

You can leave or I’ll have them come over and help me pack some things. Shannon’s eyes narrowed.

Who? David? I saw how he looked at you at the dinner.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I slipped past her to my bedroom to grab some essentials.

The room was in disarray. My drawers were pulled open.

Clothes strewn across the bed. She’d been going through my things.

I grabbed my backpack and started stuffing it with whatever I could find. Shannon appeared in the doorway.

“Where do you think you’re going?” “Away from you,” I said, not looking up.

“This is insane, Shannon. You can’t just move into someone’s apartment without permission.” I thought we were past this,” she said, her voice softening in that manipulative way I was starting to recognize.

“I said I was sorry about the dinner. You know, I just get jealous sometimes.”

I zipped up my backpack. Jealousy doesn’t excuse destroying my dress or trying to force me to cut my hair.

“You’re overreacting,” Shannon said, crossing her arms. “It was just a suggestion.”

“Your hair would look better short anyway.” “More authentic.”

That word authentic hit a nerve. It summarized everything wrong with our relationship.

According to Shannon, I wasn’t an authentic queer woman because I didn’t fit her narrow definition of how one should look or act.

I’m leaving, I said firmly, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. And when I come back, you need to be gone.

Shannon blocked the doorway. Where are you going to stay?

With some man to prove me right. I pushed past her, but she grabbed my arm again.

Let go of me. You’re not leaving, she said, her voice dangerously calm.

We need to talk this through. There’s nothing to talk about, I insisted, yanking my arm free.

You’ve been controlling and manipulative since day one, and I was too naive to see it.

I made it to the front door and grabbed the handle. Shannon was right behind me.

If you leave now, don’t bother coming back. She threatened.

I’ll tell everyone what a fake you are. How you’re just experimenting with women before you go back to men.

I turned to face her. You don’t get to decide my sexuality. No one does.

I’m bisexual and that’s valid whether you accept it or not. I walked out and slammed the door behind me.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely text Jessica to ask if I could crash at her place. I didn’t want to worry her with all the details, so I just said Shannon and I had a bad fight.

She responded immediately, telling me to come over. The 20-minute drive to Jessica’s apartment gave me time to think.

I needed a plan to get Shannon out of my place, but I also needed to ensure my safety. The fact that she had manipulated my landlord into giving her access was deeply unsettling.

When I arrived at Jessica’s, she took one look at my face and pulled me into a hug. We sat on her couch as I told her everything.

The constant criticism of my appearance, the wine incident, the scissors, and now Shannon breaking into my apartment and acting like she lives there.

“That’s not normal, Riley,” Jessica said, using my name for the first time in my story. “What she’s doing is abuse.”

“The word hit me hard. Abuse.” I’d always associated that term with physical violence.

But what Shannon was doing, trying to control how I dressed, who I talked to, even demanding I cut my hair, that was abuse, too.

You need to call the police,” Jessica insisted. I shook my head.

“She’ll just say, “Mr. Peterson, let her in.” And technically, some of her stuff was already at my place.

Then we need to document everything, Jessica said. Take photos of your apartment tomorrow when she’s not there.

Get everything in writing. The next morning, I called in sick to work.

I couldn’t focus anyway, knowing Shannon might still be in my apartment. Around 10:00 a.m., I texted her.

I expect you to be gone from my apartment by the end of today. You do not live there. You are not welcome there.

Her response came quickly. This is ridiculous. Where am I supposed to go?

That’s not my problem, I texted back. You have your own place. Go there.

Shannon fired back a string of messages accusing me of leading her on, of being confused about my sexuality, of prioritizing my straight passing privilege. I didn’t respond to any of it.

Instead, I screenshotted everything and saved it. Around noon, I received a text from my neighbor, Dakota.

We weren’t close, but we had exchanged numbers for emergencies. Hey, is everything okay?

There’s someone throwing stuff around in your apartment. Sounds like breaking glass.

My stomach dropped. I called Dakota immediately.

She told me she’d heard shouting and crashing noises coming from my place for about 30 minutes.

I asked her to call the police if she heard anything else and hung up. “She’s destroying my apartment,” I told Jessica.

Panic rising in my chest. “That’s it,” Jessica said, grabbing her keys.

We’re going over there with backup. Jessica called her fianceé Quinn and her brother Jordan to meet us at my place.

Safety and numbers was the plan. When we arrived, the apartment was eerily quiet.

I tried my key in the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. She changed the locks, I said in disbelief.

That’s definitely illegal, Quinn said. She can’t change the locks on an apartment she doesn’t rent.

I knocked loudly. No answer.

After a few minutes, I called Mr. Peterson. He sounded confused when I explained the situation, insisting he thought Shannon lived with me because she had said as much.

He promised to come over with his master key. While we waited, Dakota came out of her apartment.

She left about an hour ago, she told me. Had a bunch of bags with her, looked really angry.

Mr. Peterson arrived 15 minutes later, apologizing profusely for the misunderstanding. When he unlocked the door, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

My apartment was trashed. Pictures had been ripped off walls. My mirror was shattered.

Clothes were scattered everywhere. But the worst part was what Shannon had done to my things.

My dresses were cut up, makeup smashed on the bathroom floor, and my hair products emptied into the sink. “Oh my god,” Jessica whispered beside me.

I walked through the wreckage in a daze. In the bedroom, I found the final insult.

She had cut up all the photos of me with male friends. David’s face was scratched out of every picture we had together.

“This is insane,” Jordan said, picking up the remnants of a framed photo. “You need to call the police.”

This time, I agreed. The officer who responded took pictures and a statement.

I showed him my texts telling Shannon to leave and the threatening messages she’d sent in response.

He said they would try to locate her, but warned me that without physical violence, there wasn’t much they could do besides document the property damage.

You should file for a restraining order, the officer suggested. Given the property damage and unauthorized entry, you have grounds.

After the police left, my friends helped me clean up the worst of the mess.

Quinn changed the locks again, installing a deadbolt that couldn’t be opened from the outside, even with a key.

Jordan set up a small security camera facing the door, connecting it to my phone so I could monitor any activity.

That night, I stayed with Jessica again. I couldn’t face sleeping in my violated space just yet.

The next day, I filed for an emergency restraining order and submitted all my evidence, the texts, photos of the damage, and the police report.

For 3 days, there was no sign of Shannon. I started to hope maybe she’d given up and moved on.

I was wrong. The day after I moved back into my apartment, the harassment began.

First, it was just repeated calls from blocked numbers. Then, packages started arriving.

Things I never ordered. Food deliveries showed up at all hours of the night.

Someone kept ringing my doorbell at 3:00 a.m. and running away before I could check the camera.

At work, I received a massive bouquet of flowers. The card read, “I know you miss me as much as I miss you.”

No signature, but I knew who they were from. My co-workers thought it was romantic. I felt sick.

Then the rumors started. Mutual friends began acting strange around me.

One of them, Linda, finally told me what was happening.

Shannon was telling everyone that I had cheated on her with David, that I was just experimenting with women, that I had kicked her out with nowhere to go.

She’s really convincing. Linda admitted. If I didn’t know you better, I might have believed her.

The restraining order was approved, but serving Shannon proved difficult. She’d apparently moved out of her apartment, and no one knew where she was staying.

The police told me they’d keep trying, but without a current address. Their options were limited.

One night, about 2 weeks after the break-in, I woke to a noise at my window.

The security system Jordan installed started pinging my phone. Someone was on my fire escape.

I grabbed my phone and locked myself in the bathroom, calling 911.

By the time the police arrived, whoever it was had disappeared. The officer found scratches around my window frame, like someone had tried to force it open.

They promised to patrol the area more frequently, but reminded me there wasn’t much else they could do.

The following day, I called my landlord and explained the situation in detail. Mr. Peterson was horrified and immediately approved my request to install better security.

I had bars put on my windows and upgraded to a system with motion sensors and cameras covering all entry points.

That weekend, I was grocery shopping when I saw her. Shannon was at the end of the aisle watching me.

When our eyes met, she didn’t run or look away. She smiled.

I abandoned my cart and left immediately, heart pounding. In my car, I called the police non-emergency line to report the sighting.

They told me they would send someone to look for her, but by the time they arrived, she was gone.

The officer reminded me that simply being in the same public place wasn’t a violation of the restraining order, which hadn’t been served yet anyway.

They needed proof she was following me intentionally. The next day, I received an email from an address I didn’t recognize.

The subject line was, “I know what you really want.” The content was a single image, a photo of me sleeping in my bed.

It had been taken through my bedroom window before I installed the security bars. This was the evidence I needed.

The police took it seriously this time, documenting the email and the photo as proof of stalking.

They increased patrols around my apartment and promised to expedite serving the restraining order.

I decided I needed to take my safety into my own hands. Jordan offered to stay with me for a while, sleeping on my couch.

I accepted gratefully. Having someone else in the apartment made me feel safer, and Shannon seemed less likely to try anything if I wasn’t alone.

A week passed without incident. I started to relax slightly, thinking maybe the police involvement had finally scared her off.

Then Jordan found something disturbing. A small device tucked behind my TV stand.

It was a listening bug. “How long has this been here?” I asked, staring at the tiny device in horror.

Jordan shook his head. No way to know. Could have been planted when she broke in, or maybe before that.

We searched the entire apartment and found two more bugs, one in my bedroom and another in the kitchen.

The invasion of privacy made me feel violated all over again.

She had been listening to my private conversations, hearing everything I said in my own home.

Looking back, this explained how Shannon knew my movements so well.

She had likely planted these devices during her initial break-in when she had hours alone in my apartment before I discovered her presence.

The police added this to my case file. They were now treating it as a serious stalking situation, but they still hadn’t located Shannon to serve the restraining order.

They suggested I stay somewhere else for a while, somewhere Shannon wouldn’t know about.

I took a week off work and stayed with a cousin in a nearby town. Jordan and Quinn checked on my apartment daily.

For the first time in weeks, I slept through the night without waking up in panic.

When I returned, there was a notice on my door. Shannon had been located and served with the restraining order.

She was legally prohibited from contacting me or coming within 500 feet of my home or workplace.

A small victory, but I still didn’t feel safe. That feeling was justified when I checked my email that evening.

There was a message from a different unknown address. No text, just an attachment.

I hesitated before opening it, then wished I hadn’t. It was a document, a lease application for the apartment directly across from mine in my building.

Shannon’s name was on it. I called the property management company immediately.

The woman I spoke to confirmed that yes, they had received an application from Shannon Taylor for unit 4B, but it hadn’t been approved yet.

When I explained the situation and mentioned the restraining order, she assured me they would reject the application.

The next day, I received a call from Dakota. There’s a woman arguing with Mr. Peterson in the hallway.

She told me, “I think it’s your ex.” I told Dakota to stay inside and call the police.

I then called Jordan, who was only 10 minutes away. He arrived before the police and confirmed Shannon was indeed in the building, shouting at Mr. Peterson about discrimination in housing.

When the police arrived, they arrested Shannon for violating the restraining order.

As they led her out, she spotted me watching from my doorway. The look she gave me was chilling.

Pure hatred mixed with something else, something possessive. “This isn’t over,” she called out before the officers pushed her into the patrol car.

I spent the next hour giving another statement to the police. They explained that Shannon would likely be released on bail soon, but this violation would strengthen my case for a permanent restraining order.

True to their prediction, Shannon was out by the next morning. I knew because she immediately started calling me from new numbers.

I blocked each one after the first ring, but they kept coming. The emails resumed, too.

Sometimes pleading, sometimes threatening. I forwarded everything to the police without reading past the first lines.

Then the campaign against me escalated. Someone, and I had no doubt who, created a fake profile for me on a dating site, complete with suggestive photos that had been edited to look like me.

My phone number was listed, resulting in dozens of calls and texts from strange men.

Shannon also apparently told my boss I was stealing from the company.

There was an uncomfortable meeting where I had to defend myself against baseless accusations.

Thankfully, I had never done anything wrong, and my work record spoke for itself. My boss eventually believed me, especially after I explained the situation with Shannon.

The final straw came when I discovered Shannon had somehow gained access to my social media accounts.

She hadn’t posted anything yet, but I found login notifications from devices I didn’t own.

I immediately changed all my passwords, set up two-factor authentication, and locked down my privacy settings.

Jordan suggested I take legal action beyond the restraining order. His friend Morgan was a lawyer who specialized in harassment cases.

I made an appointment to see her the following week. In the meantime, I documented everything.

Every call, every email, every incident went into a detailed log with dates and times. The police advised me to keep this record, saying it would be crucial for building a case against Shannon.

The night before my appointment with the lawyer, I received one final email. Unlike the others, this one chilled me to the bone.

If I can’t have you, no one will. Not David, not anyone. We belong together. You’ll see.

I forwarded it to the police immediately. The officer I spoke with said they would try to locate Shannon again, but without specific threats of violence, there wasn’t much they could do beyond what they were already doing.

That night, I barely slept. Every noise made me jump.

I checked and rechecked my locks and security system.

Jordan had stayed over again, sleeping on my couch with a baseball bat nearby, but even his presence didn’t completely ease my fears.

The next morning, as I was getting ready to meet the lawyer, my phone pinged with a security alert.

Someone was at my door. I checked the camera feed and felt my blood freeze.

Shannon was standing there staring directly into the camera. She wasn’t doing anything, just looking, watching, waiting.

I called the police while Jordan went to the door, keeping it closed and locked. “You need to leave,” he shouted through the door.

The police are on their way. Shannon didn’t respond. She didn’t move.

She just kept staring at the camera with that same unsettling smile.

When the police arrived 10 minutes later, she was gone.

I decided to cancel my meeting with the lawyer and stay put.

I was basically trapped in my own apartment because of this psycho. Jordan stayed with me while we waited for any news from the police.

They promised to look for Shannon, but warned me that she might have just left the area after the camera caught her.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I said to Jordan as we sat in my living room. “I can’t live like this.”

We ordered food delivery since neither of us wanted to leave the apartment.

The delivery guy seemed normal enough, but I still made Jordan accept the food while I hid in the bedroom.

Paranoid, maybe, but with Shannon’s track record, I wasn’t taking chances.

After eating, I checked my phone and found three new emails from random addresses. I didn’t even open them.

Just forwarded them straight to the police officer handling my case.

Let them deal with whatever crazy stuff Shannon was sending now. I tried distracting myself by watching Netflix, but every little noise made me jump.

Jordan noticed and suggested we invite more friends over. Safety and numbers and all that.

Jessica and Quinn came over within an hour, bringing more food and some board games.

You need to get your mind off this, Jessica said, setting up Monopoly on my coffee table. We were halfway through the game when my phone rang.

Unknown number. I declined it immediately.

That’s the fifth call in the last hour. Jordan pointed out just then, Dakota texted me.

Hey, some woman was asking neighbors about you. Said she was your sister. Dark hair, lots of tattoos.

I didn’t tell her anything. I showed everyone the text. She’s not giving up.

Quinn, who’d been pretty quiet all evening, suddenly spoke up. I have an idea.

It’s a bit extreme, but hear me out. His plan was simple, but scary.

Use me as bait to catch Shannon violating the restraining order, but with plenty of witnesses and security.

I’d post on social media about going to a specific restaurant, knowing Shannon was monitoring my accounts.

We’d alert the police ahead of time, and my friends would surround me for protection. “That’s insane,” Jessica said immediately.

“She could hurt Riley.” “Not with all of us there,” Quinn argued.

And the cops nearby. I thought about it. Living in fear wasn’t sustainable.

I needed this to end. Let’s do it, I decided. But we need to plan this perfectly.

The next day, I created a public Instagram story mentioning I was excited for dinner at Bellinis, a popular Italian place downtown.

I tagged the location and added, “Finally getting out after all this drama for good measure.”

Then I called the police and explained our plan. They reluctantly agreed to have officers nearby, but warned they couldn’t station someone directly at our table without cause.

We arrived at the restaurant early, securing a table with good visibility of both entrances.

Jordan, Quinn, Jessica, and two other friends positioned themselves strategically around me. I felt like the president with a security detail.

An hour passed. No Shannon.

By dessert, I was starting to think she hadn’t seen the post or maybe had finally given up.

“Maybe this was a waste of time,” I said, feeling both relieved and disappointed.

That’s when Jessica glanced toward the bar and tensed up. “Don’t look now, but 3:00 at the bar.”

I casually turned my head and my stomach dropped. Shannon was sitting there nursing a drink, watching our table.

She must have been there the whole time, just observing from a distance. “Call the cops.”

Jordan whispered, already taking out his phone. Before he could dial, Shannon stood up and walked straight toward our table.

My heart pounded so hard I could barely breathe. “Hello, Riley,” she said, her voice sickeningly sweet.

“Fancy seeing you here?” Quinn immediately stood up, positioning himself between us.

“You need to leave now. There’s a restraining order.” Shannon laughed.

“I’m just having dinner. It’s a public place.” “You’re within 500 feet of Riley,” Jessica said firmly.

“That’s a violation.” Other diners were starting to stare.

Shannon noticed the attention and lowered her voice. “I just want five minutes to talk. That’s all.”

The police are on their way,” I said, finding my voice. “This is your last chance to leave before they arrest you again.”

Something changed in Shannon’s eyes. Then a flash of panic mixed with anger.

She leaned closer, ignoring Quinn’s attempts to block her. “You think you can just throw me away?” She hissed.

“After everything we had, we dated for 4 months, and you spent most of that time trying to control and change me,” I replied, keeping my voice steady.

“That’s not a relationship, Shannon. That’s abuse.” She recoiled like I’d slapped her.

I was helping you. You don’t even know who you are.

I know exactly who I am, I said firmly. I’m the same person I’ve always been.

You’re the one who couldn’t accept that. Shannon reached for my arm, but Jordan intercepted, grabbing her wrist.

Don’t touch her. The restaurant manager approached, asking what the problem was.

Shannon immediately switched to victim mode, claiming my friends were harassing her, but several nearby diners spoke up, saying they’d seen her approach our table and act aggressively.

Two police officers arrived just as Shannon was trying to leave. They intercepted her at the door.

I watched as they spoke to her, then put her in handcuffs after checking something on their computer, probably confirming the restraining order.

An officer came to take my statement while Shannon was put in the patrol car. He confirmed she would be charged with violating the restraining order, which could mean actual jail time given the previous violation.

Will this finally stop her? I asked. The officer was honest. It depends.

Some people get the message after jail time, others don’t.

But this will create a solid legal record against her, which helps if things escalate further.

I went home feeling simultaneously relieved and anxious. The plan had worked, but what would happen when Shannon was released again?

The answer came sooner than expected.