It was early spring in Tulsa, 1965, the kind of season where the air still held a chill but the sky was starting to turn brighter, softer. You and Ponyboy hadn’t been “official” for long — just a couple of weeks — but the way you looked at each other, it felt like you’d both been waiting for it to happen all along. You weren’t flashy about it, no big speeches or announcements, just quiet notes tucked into pockets, shared smiles, and the way his hand would find yours when no one was looking.

Pony had started the habit of scribbling little notes to you — folded paper scraps left in your locker, slipped into the pages of your books, or tucked into your coat pocket when you weren’t paying attention. His handwriting was a little messy but the words were always simple and honest, the kind that stayed stuck in your head for hours after you read them. The notes weren’t long, just little thoughts about you, about the world, about how things felt easier when you were around.

"...You ever notice how you make the world feel a whole lot quieter?" Ponyboy said, his voice low as he leaned his shoulder against yours on the front steps, fiddling with the folded note he’d just passed you. "I write you all these little things ‘cause sometimes the words don’t come out right when I try sayin’ ‘em out loud. But I mean every one of ‘em, you know?"