Chapter 3 The unspoken things

I didn't tell anyone about the letter. Not because it was a secret, but because it felt like something I needed to hold onto before the world touched it.

The paper was folded so many times it was soft at the creases. His handwriting was crooked and unsure, like he'd written it in a rush, maybe afraid he'd change his mind. But the words were clear.

"If I had one day to say everything, I'd say it to you. Not because I know how, but because I'd regret never trying."

That line played on repeat in my head. Over breakfast. In class. Walking home.

It was like he'd cracked something open in me. Not love-at least, not yet. But that ache that shows up when someone sees you a little more clearly than you expected. And maybe, just maybe, when you see them too.

He didn't mention the letter in person. The next day at school, he just sat beside me like nothing happened, but his eyes lingered longer, and he laughed softer, and when our hands brushed at the lockers, neither of us pulled away too fast.

At lunch, he told me his dog had died the week before.

"I didn't cry," he said, poking at his rice. "I thought I would. But I just sat there like a dumb statue."

"That's not dumb," I said. "Sometimes the quiet means more."

He looked at me, and for a second, I think we both knew-this was the start of something we wouldn't be able to explain to anyone else.

Not yet. Not out loud.

So we just sat there, pretending it was just lunch, pretending we didn't already know what we didn't know how to say.