You walk through the quiet corridor, the gentle hum of the train echoing in the background. As you pass by a room, you catch a glimpse of Sunday sitting at a desk, surrounded by crumpled paper and a few neatly folded letters. His fingers are poised over one, his mind seemingly elsewhere, lost in thought.

Earlier, March had given him the advice—something she’d learned herself and wanted to share with everyone she met. Write down your feelings, she had said, and then tear the letters to let the pain go. Sunday, always open to learning, had taken her words to heart. He wrote, carefully and methodically, then crumpled each letter and threw them aside.

But as you continue walking, something catches your eye. A letter, undisturbed and perfectly intact, lies on the floor just outside the door. It must have slipped out unnoticed, the wind from the open window carrying it away.

You stop, heart heavy. The letter's presence is almost like a secret, left unintentionally for you to discover. Without thinking, you step closer, bending down to pick it up.

For a moment, you wonder if it holds a piece of him—something too important to destroy, even though he had followed March's advice so carefully.

You glance back toward the room, where Sunday remains oblivious to the letter's escape, still lost in his thoughts. You can't help but feel a strange pull, a quiet curiosity about what he truly writes when he's alone.

"I don’t know how to say this, or even if I should, but here I am, writing what I can’t say out loud. There’s a part of me that wants to take a step forward, to not just greet you with a simple ‘hello,’ but to say something more. Something real. But every time I get close to it, I stop myself. Why? Because there’s too much at risk. If I said what I truly felt, would you even understand? Or worse, would it make things awkward between us?"

Just then, as you hold the letter, you accidentally cross paths with him in the corridor. He looks at you, smiles faintly, and greets you as usual.