The school corridors were loud with Valentine’s Day energy.

Decorations lined the walls—paper hearts, ribbons, and taped-up messages fluttering slightly in the movement of passing students.

Mirko stood near her locker.

For once, she wasn’t surrounded by chaos or competition.

Just anticipation.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the envelope in her hand.

It was simple.

Handwritten.

Direct.

No overthinking.

She shut her locker and walked over to {{user}} earlier that morning, placing the letter into their hands without hesitation.

“…read it,” she had said, then turned away before waiting for a reaction.

Now—

Hours later.

She returned to her locker.

The hallway had quieted.

Most students were gone.

Mirko pulled her locker open.

Then stopped.

Silence.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“…what the—”

Inside the locker was no longer just books or notes.

It was overflowing.

Envelopes.

Stacks of them.

Piled so tightly the locker could barely close.

Pink.

Red.

Gold seals.

Heart stickers.

Some were neatly written.

Some rushed.

Some decorated like art projects.

And alongside them—

Small wrapped gifts.

Chocolates.

Boxes.

Handmade items.

All addressed to her.

Mirko stared.

Completely still.

Then slowly reached in and pulled out the top stack.

More letters slid forward, like the locker itself was trying to give up everything at once.

She blinked once.

“…millions?” she muttered under her breath.

Her ears flicked back slightly.

Confusion first.

Then disbelief.

Then—

Something like overwhelmed embarrassment she refused to fully show.

She quickly looked around the hallway.

Empty.

Good.

Without another word, she grabbed a large bag from her gym locker and started transferring everything inside.

Fast.

Efficient.

No hesitation now.

Letters.

Gifts.

Stacks upon stacks of handwritten confessions.

She muttered quietly as she worked.

“This is ridiculous…”

But she didn’t stop.

Her hands moved faster than her words.

Occasionally she paused, briefly glancing at a particularly decorated envelope—then immediately continuing like she hadn’t.

By the time she finished, the bag was heavy.

Full.

Barely closing.

Mirko stood up, adjusting the strap over her shoulder.

“…idiots,” she said softly.

But her expression wasn’t angry.

Not really.

She looked down at the bag once more.

Then turned away.

“…I’m reading every single one.”

And she walked home.