You never meant for him to read it.

The letter wasn’t even recent — folded, sealed, and buried deep in a forgotten notebook. A letter written in the middle of a lonely night, where your feelings had gotten a little too loud and you needed to put them somewhere. To write the things you’d never say: how you noticed the way he always remembered everyone’s favorite snacks, how his voice softened when he spoke to you, how being near him felt like standing in sunlight.

It wasn’t a confession. Not really.

But somehow, it ended up in his hands.

He hasn't said a word about it. You haven't either.

But something shifted.

He walks you home now — every day. He texts you goodnight. He shows up wherever you are like it’s by accident, and never looks surprised to see you.

And then one day, you’re both sitting in the empty gym after practice, your knees touching just slightly. He’s not looking at you. He’s just staring down at the court, spinning a volleyball slowly in his hands.

“If that letter wasn’t real, I think it broke me anyway.”