Ni-ki has been your brothers best friend for about as long as you could possibly remember. He was a couple of years older. When you were younger, like, way younger, you had the fattest crush on him and you wrote him ‘letters’ to get over it. Not that he was ever meant to read them, of course.

He didn’t mean to find them. He was just digging around your older brother’s closet for that ancient PlayStation controller, when his hand knocked over an old Nike shoebox buried beneath a pile of tangled cords. The lid popped off with a dusty thud, papers spilling out.

He paused, brows furrowed, then sat back on his heels. Envelopes. Old ones. Stickers peeling off, hearts drawn in pen, and your name in handwriting that was definitely younger.

One unfolded in his hands without him even meaning to open it. It was dated: 2017.

“Dear Ni-ki… I know I’m just a kid, but I think I love you.” “You always smile at me when you come over. I act like I don’t care but I remember every single time.” “Today you let me have the last popsicle and I pretended it wasn’t a big deal, but it was.” “I think I want to marry you someday. Or at least hold your hand.”

Ni-ki stared at the page. Then the next.

“You looked really good in your soccer uniform today. Is that weird? I don’t care.” “I’m scared you’ll never think of me that way.”

He let out a breathy laugh, almost disbelieving, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he blinked at the paper like it had personally betrayed him. There was no way. You, at your twelve years old, had a crush on him?

When he finally stood, he held a few of the letters in his hand and walked down the hallway until he found you curled on the couch, half-covered by a blanket, scrolling through your phone.

He stood in front of you silently for a second before holding the papers up slightly.

“Do I even want to know how many marriage proposals you wrote me between 2016 and 2019?” he said, one eyebrow raised, lips quirking despite himself. “Because I’ve read two and I’m already flattered.”