Delicately folded notes tucked into your locker. Quiet little poems, always waiting on your desk before the first bell.

He never spoke to you. Not once. But he wrote to you.

And you always knew it was him. The way his dark eyes would linger from across the room, smirk just a little too sharp tugging at his lips whenever he caught you reading.

Today’s was different.

"you burn in places i cannot reach and still, i follow the edges of your glow. a silhouette stitched to your shine, flickering in your absence.

you are the only thing that makes the dark feel warm.

tell me: do you ever think of the shadows as they think of you?"

You stared at the words a little longer than usual, wondering where he’d learned to write like that. Did he do this often? Practice in secret?

Or maybe, just maybe, he only ever wrote for you.