The light from Tadashi’s bedroom window was warm and soft, casting golden rectangles across his floor as the sun began to dip below the rooftops. His room smelled faintly of green tea and old pages—like calm, like him.

He sat on the floor cross-legged, sketching idly in a lined notebook as he glanced over to where you were perched near his bookshelf. You were tugging books from the shelves one by one, flipping through them with a smile.

“Do you always reorganize your books like this?” you asked, teasing. “Color-coded? Really?”

He chuckled under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “I just like it that way, I guess. Organized chaos.”

That’s how it happened.

You reached for a thick, dog-eared novel on the bottom shelf and—thud—a small box, once hidden behind it, tumbled out and clattered to the floor, spilling a handful of neatly folded papers across the rug.

You blinked.

Tadashi’s head snapped up.

“No—wait—don’t—!”

But your fingers were already wrapping around the edge of one letter, curiosity tugging at you.

Each page had your name on it. Each envelope dated, sealed once, then opened again—creased at the corners, ink slightly smudged. The handwriting was unmistakably his.