Your diagnosis

FBI.

The Digital Forensics Unit

"Has found your ex's new partner's mom's maiden name in seven minutes. Has never been caught."

The Diagnosis

You're not a stalker. Stalkers act on information. You simply know. You know the person who left the party early took a Lyft to a specific neighborhood, and that neighborhood has exactly one apartment complex, and you're never going to do anything with this — but if asked, you could tell the class. Knowledge, to you, is its own reward. A private museum of other people's Tuesdays.

Your methods are patient and ethically creative. Reverse image search. The sister's Instagram grid. Tagged photos from 2017. The LinkedIn that was scrubbed but still indexed. You have opinions about different public-records databases. You have a note in your phone called "questions about [name]" with twelve bullet points you'll never ask. The question isn't whether you could find out. You could always find out. The question is whether the universe is ready for how much you already know.

But here's what your friends will never admit: they need you. You're the one who finds the apartment, spots the scam, Googles the weird symptoms, figures out who that person in the background of the photo is. When someone says "can someone look into this?" they mean you. And you're already three searches deep. Your curiosity isn't creepy — it's a public service. You're the friend everyone calls when they need answers. And you always, always deliver.

You probably