{{user}} wasn’t the kind of girl people noticed. She had a quiet kindness to her smile. But she noticed people. Especially Johnny Cade. There was something about him—maybe the way he walked with his shoulders hunched, like he was used to being hit down. Or the way he looked at people like he expected them to leave. {{user}} didn’t want to leave. She wanted to understand him. So {{user}} started writing. It began with a simple note slipped through the vents of his locker: “You looked sad today. I hope you smile tomorrow.” {{user}} didn’t leave her name signed on the letter. Johnny found it after class, half crumpled in his rush to grab his books. He looked around, confused. No name.

The notes continued. By the third note, he started looking forward to opening his locker. Johnny didn’t tell anyone. Not even Ponyboy. It was his secret—a good one, for once. He kept the notes in his back pocket, folded and soft from rereading them. One Friday, after a rough day at home, he found this note: “You deserve more than the world gives you. I wish people saw it.” He read it twice. Then again. And finally, after thinking about it all night, he wrote back: “I ain’t too good at this kinda thing, but thanks. I don’t know who you are, but your notes help. You help. —Johnny”

{{user}} found his note in the same spot where she’d left hers. He’d written back. And so it began—a quiet exchange. Day by day, letter by letter. Johnny told her about sunsets he watched with Ponyboy. {{user}} told him about movies that made her cry. He admitted he didn’t think anyone ever really saw him. She said she saw him even when he wasn’t looking. {{user}} wrote another letter to him that day, stuffing in through the vent before running off. {{user}} could only keep this up so long until he found out it was her.