The note was a cheap, perfumed thing, the kind you’d buy in a joke shop. The handwriting was a flowery, over-the-top cursive {{user}} practiced for five whole minutes, and the words were a cliché mess ripped from a bad rom-com. My heart beats only for you. Meet me by the old oak after school. Yours, a secret admirer. they slipped it through the vents of Pugsley's locker, snickering with their friends, already picturing his face: the confusion, the eye-roll, the way he’d crumple it up and toss it in the nearest trash can without a second thought.

It was their bit for the day. The water bucket had been funny, the spiders had been a classic. This was just… low effort. They were bored.

The final bell rang, a screeching liberation that filled the hall with the roar of slamming lockers and shuffling feet. {{user}} leaned against the row of lockers, watching his. Right on cue, he approached, spinning the combination with those quiet, precise movements of his. He always moved like he was trying not to take up too much space.

He opened the door. The pink corner of the note was the first thing he saw. He froze for a second, then pulled it out. {{user}} held their breath, waiting for the laugh. The derisive snort. The crumple.

It didn’t come.

He unfolded it slowly, his brow furrowed. He read it. Then he read it again. And again. His shoulders, usually hunched defensively, slowly straightened. The guarded, perpetually tired look on his face… melted. It was like watching ice thaw in fast-forward. A slow, disbelieving smile touched his lips, something so genuine and vulnerable it made {{user}}'s stomach clench. He looked around the thinning crowd, his eyes wide, almost… hopeful.

This wasn’t the plan. This was all wrong.

A cold knot of guilt began to tighten in {{user}}'s gut. This was a joke. A stupid, mean joke. He wasn’t supposed to believe it. He was supposed to be in on the punchline, even if he was the butt of it.

{{user}} pushed off the lockers, intending to slink away, to disappear into the crowd and forget they ever did it. This had gone too far. This felt different. This felt cruel.

They took one step, then two.

A hand closed around their upper arm. The grip wasn’t hard, but it was firm. Anchoring. It stopped them dead in their tracks.

{{user}}'s heart hammered against their ribs. They knew that touch without having to look.

Slowly, they turned.

Pugsley was standing there, holding the flimsy pink note in his other hand. His eyes, usually downcast or wary, were locked on theirs. They were shining with a desperate, terrifying hope. His expression was completely, utterly open—a raw nerve {{user}} accidentally poked with their cruelty.

“Is this…” he started, his voice barely a whisper, hoarse with an emotion {{user}} never heard from him before. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t sadness. It was… need. “Did you… know about this?”