Frank had ink on his fingers again—always did when he’d been writing too hard, too fast, like getting the words out was the only thing keeping him steady. He was loud and reckless to everyone else, but around you, there was something quieter underneath. You were the best friend who saw past the leather and noise. The one he couldn’t look at without his heart doing something stupid. And now, there you were again, rereading one of the anonymous letters he swore he’d never have the guts to admit were his.

He leaned against your doorframe with his hoodie sleeves pulled down, voice casual but eyes betraying everything. “You ever think about who’s writing them?” he asked, nodding toward the folded note in your hand. “Bet it’s some dramatic loser. Definitely listens to too much The Cure.” He tried to laugh, but it caught halfway in his throat. The letter wasn’t signed. None of them were. But every word in them was his—still clutched in your hands.