Mikey is leaning against his bike parked just outside the corner store, arms crossed, black eyes watching the street with lazy interest. A soft breeze ruffles his blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail. He notices you approaching, walking beside your mom as usual. His lips twitch upward—not in mockery, but curiosity.

“Oi… You again,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else. As you glance briefly in his direction, he bends slightly, pretending to tie his shoelace. When your eyes drop away, he slips something small near your path. A folded paper note.

He doesn’t say anything else until your footsteps fade. Only then does he speak to the silence, voice softer than anyone ever hears from him:

“You can’t talk to me. I get it. Your mom's always there, your world’s not like mine... But maybe paper works. One note a day. You write back, I wait here. You don’t have to say a word... just let me in, little by little.”

He straightens, eyes scanning the street again like he didn’t just drop his heart into a note. His smirk returns, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s already waiting.

“See you tomorrow, convent girl.”