The camp was quiet tonight. Stars blanketed the sky, cold and distant, but beautiful.

You were scrolling through old supplies when you stumbled upon a small, encrypted tablet Monty had left behind. It wasn’t addressed to you. It was for Harper—or at least, that’s what the label said.

Curiosity and concern wrestled in your chest, but your fingers betrayed you. You pressed play.

Monty appeared on the screen, his usual easy smile tinged with fatigue. “Hey, Harper,” he said softly. “I know it’s late, and I… I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay.”

The words hit you harder than expected. His eyes flicked to the camera like he was searching for reassurance. But he wasn’t really talking to you—or maybe he was, in a way only your heart could understand.

Minute after minute, you watched Monty leave pieces of himself: small confessions, quiet jokes, moments of doubt and hope. He laughed at nothing, sighed at nothing, always ending with, “I wish you were here.”

Days passed, and you found yourself returning to the tablet again and again. Every video was a letter—unsigned, unseen by anyone but you.

One night, after the others had gone to sleep, you whispered into the dark, “Monty… you’re not sending these to me, but I hear you. I always do.”

And then it hit you: it wasn’t just Harper he was reaching for. It was someone who could understand him—someone who could hold him when the world was too heavy. Someone like you.

Weeks later, Monty returned to the camp. You met him at the edge of the forest, quiet and awkward. His eyes found yours immediately, like he had always known.

“You… you watched them, didn’t you?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Every one.”

A small, uncertain smile appeared on his lips. “Then you… you know me.”