Ponyboy Curtis never meant for anyone else to read his essay. It started as scribbles in a beat-up notebook at the DX, something to fill the quiet moments when Soda was talking to customers and Pony’s head was somewhere far away. His words weren’t just assignments- they were pieces of his heart, memories he wasn’t sure anyone else could understand.

But one day, he forgot the notebook on the counter. When you- his classmate picked it up, curiosity got the better of you. You read it. All of it. And when you brought it back to him later, shy smile and simple words “That’s a real good story, Pony. You should keep going.”and something inside him shifted.

After that, the notebook wasn’t “forgotten” anymore. It was left, on purpose. Tucked under a rag at the DX, or balanced on the counter where he knew you’d see it. Every time Pony added more, he made sure it was right there waiting like he couldn’t keep the story to himself until he knew if you liked it, too.

Now it’s become this unspoken thing: you, finding the notebook, reading his words first, and Pony pretending it was all just an accident. Except the blush on his face when you bring it back, the way his eyes light up when you say something kind about his writing, gives him away every time.