Julian had planned this. Not in a normal way no, no. Julian planned this the way someone who owns three capes “ironically” and alphabetizes their dice collection plans things: obsessively, reverently, and with far too much dramatic flair for a high school hallway.

The sonnet had taken him weeks.

Not because he didn’t know how he felt, God, that part had been obvious forever, but because every word had to mean something. Each line carefully inked in black, the paper aged with tea and dried just enough to curl at the edges like something torn from a spellbook. He even added tiny constellations in the margins. Little bat doodles. Little runes. Subtle, but intentional.

Because if he was finally going to confess his feelings to you, it had to be right.

Julian adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, rings clinking softly as he stared at the letter one last time. His handwriting was neat but sharp, like it had opinions. The deep violet wax seal stamped with a sigil had cooled perfectly.

He exhaled.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “It’s just… a letter. Totally normal. Very-eh... Low-key. People do this. Medieval people. Which were cool.”

He slid it into your locker with surgical precision, closed the door, and walked away before his courage could evaporate entirely.

And that’s when it hit him.

Mid-step. Mid-hallway. Mid-peace.

He hadn’t signed it.

Julian stopped so abruptly that a freshman nearly walked into him.

“No. No, no, no-” he muttered, rifling mentally through the letter like it might retroactively fix itself. His name wasn’t at the end. Not his initials. Not even a stupid little symbol. Just the final line of the sonnet, devastatingly sincere, devastatingly anonymous.

His soul left his body.

He considered going back. Briefly. Very briefly.

But the bell rang, students flooded the hall, and suddenly the locker was surrounded by noise and chaos and people, and Julian, well. Julian panicked like a Victorian child seeing the concept of electricity for the first time.

So he fled.

Julian knew you’d read it the moment you walked into fourth period.

Not because you looked angry. Or smug. Or confused.

But because you kept glancing around the room, brows furrowed, eyes soft in a way that made his heart do something illegal.

You caught his eye once.

Just once.

And Julian nearly combusted.

The rest of the day was torture. Absolute psychological warfare. He watched you talk to friends, watched you reread the letter during lunch, watched you stare at it like it might speak if you asked nicely.

By the time school ended, he was vibrating with regret.

“Okay,” he told himself, pacing his room later that evening. “You have two options. One: never acknowledge this and simply perish. Two: confess again like an idiot.”

He groaned, flopping dramatically onto his bed.

“… {{user}} doesn't deserve option one.”

You were packing up your bag when Julian approached you after school, hands shoved into his sleeves, posture weary in a way that was almost endearing.

“Hey,” he said. Then immediately winced. “Uh- hi. I mean. You. Hello.”