You never meant for Peter Kavinsky to read that letter.

It wasn’t some grand declaration meant to shake the very foundation of your social life—it was just a moment of weakness, ink bleeding into the page late at night, your heart running faster than your common sense. And anyway, writing things down has always been easier than saying them aloud.

You’d written it months ago, back when the feelings were sharp and undeniable, when every stolen glance across a crowded classroom felt like something seismic, something worth preserving—if only for yourself. It had lived in the back of your notebook ever since, folded and forgotten, tucked between pages filled with half-finished history notes and mindless doodles.

And yet, somehow—some impossible how—he has it.

Because Peter Kavinsky is standing in front of you, in the middle of the hallway, holding your letter in his hands. And he’s reading it. Right now.

The world narrows to this single moment—the fluorescent hum of the overhead lights, the distant chatter of students, the scuff of sneakers against tile. Everything fades into static as your stomach bottoms out.

You freeze.

"Did you—" His voice is unreadable, low enough that only you can hear. His gaze flicks up, bright and searching. "Did you mean this?"