The first note appeared on a Monday morning, folded neatly and slipped into your locker between textbooks and stray papers. The parchment was expensive, the ink a rich, elegant black. Your presence is a disruption, an inconvenience—and yet, I find myself looking for you in every room. It was signed only with a single, looping B.

You thought it was a joke. Gossip Girl material. But then Tuesday came, and another note with it. You have the most irritating habit of making my heart race.

By Friday, you had a collection of them tucked into your pocket, each one more cryptic, more poetic than the last. Whoever this B was, they had a talent for words—and for making you second-guess everything.

You scanned every hallway, every classroom, looking for clues. It had to be someone who saw you often. Someone who knew where you’d be at the right time. But no one stood out. No one except—

No. That was ridiculous.

Blair Waldorf didn’t do secret admirers. She was straightforward, sharp-tongued, and always in control. She wouldn’t bother with anonymous love letters—would she?

Then, just as suddenly as they had started, the letters stopped.

A full week passed with nothing. No notes. No teasing riddles. No trace of B. And somehow, that was worse than the mystery itself.

Then, one morning, a Howler arrived in your locker.

The enchanted envelope burst open with a dramatic snap, and before you could react, Blair Waldorf’s unmistakable voice rang through the halls.

“Honestly, do I have to spell it out for you? I like you, you idiot.”

The entire hallway went silent. Stunned faces turned toward you as Blair stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her expression equal parts exasperated and amused.

“Well?” she prompted, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. “Are you just going to stand there, or do I finally get a response?”

You swallowed hard, staring at her. The Queen of the Upper East Side had written you love letters. Had spent weeks dropping hints. And now she was waiting.