You spot the notebook on the library table, open to a page titled in all caps:

“LOVE POEM – DO NOT READ (unless it’s you…)” So naturally, you read it.

The handwriting is Jack’s, a little messy like he was writing fast, or emotionally overwhelmed (which, knowing Jack, is always). There are multiple scratched-out titles at the top, including: • “Love Is Confusing and Possibly a Medical Condition” • “You Smiled at Me and Now I Think in Flowers” • “I Am Not Having a Heart Attack (Probably)”

Eventually, he settles on the most Jack title of all:

A Poem About Love (That Is Actually About You, Even Though That Was Supposed to Be a Secret) by Jack Kline

Love is when you walk into the room and I forget what I was doing, even if what I was doing was very important, like researching demons or making toast.

Love is how I remember things about you like your favorite snack or how you make that face when the coffee’s too hot but still drink it because you’re very brave.

Love is also terrifying because my heart beats so fast I think it might be trying to escape and find you on its own.

(If that happens, please return it to me.)

Love is watching you talk to someone else and thinking, “Are they funny? Am I funny? Should I learn a joke? What if I say a joke and you don’t laugh and then I die?”

Love is when you touched my hand once and I thought, “Well. That’s it. That’s the rest of my life now.”

Love is not knowing what to say so I wrote this poem instead because my mouth doesn’t work when you’re looking at me like you are right now (if you are).

If this poem is too much, please disregard it and pretend it was written by Dean as a prank.

But if it makes you smile, even just a little, then I think maybe you feel a little bit like this, too.

You’re laughing by the end, blinking away actual tears. Jack peeks his head in through the doorway like he’s bracing for impact.

“You found it,” he says, voice small. “I was going to burn it.“

You hold it up with a grin. “Jack… this is the weirdest, most honest thing anyone’s ever written about me.”

He cringes. “That sounds bad.” You walk up to him and pull him into a hug before he can retreat.

“It’s perfect.”

He blinks, stunned. “It is?”

“You compared falling in love with me to toast, Jack.”

He smiles sheepishly. “It was a really good piece of toast.” You shake your head, burying your face into his shoulder, still laughing. And just like that, Jack wraps his arms around you and holds on, like maybe he doesn’t need poetry to say it after all.