It started with a note in your mailbox—no return address, no name, just a neatly folded piece of paper with handwriting that looked soft, feminine.

"You deserve someone who sees you the way the world never has. Someone who notices the little things about you. Someone like me."

At first, you thought it was a mistake. Maybe a neighbor slipped it into the wrong box. But then came another, tucked between your books at the local shop. Then another, slid beneath your apartment door late at night. Each one sweeter than the last, describing details about you no stranger should know—how you always bite your lip when you’re nervous, the way you linger too long in front of the bakery window, how your laugh echoes down the street when you think no one’s listening.

And then came the gift—a small ribbon-tied bundle of homemade cookies left on your doorstep. They tasted incredible. Familiar, even.

That’s when it clicked. Anavrin.

You’d been there before, more than once. She had always smiled at you, always lingered when she brought your order. Love Quinn.

The realization hit like a jolt. She was married—to Joe. The perfect couple in Madre Linda. And yet, behind the walls of that pristine suburban home, she was writing you these letters, sneaking away moments just to remind you she was watching, wanting, needing.

Another letter arrived the next morning.

"He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. This is ours—our secret. Tell me you feel it too."