The gym looks horrific.

Glittery paper hearts are taped unevenly along the walls. Someone spelled “VALENTINE’S” wrong on a banner.

The living are setting up for their dance. The dead are pretending not to care.

You’re watching couples measure out space like this place belongs to them. ”It’s ugly,” you mutter.

A voice behind you replies dryly, “It’s offensive.”

You don’t turn around. “Didn’t realize you celebrated Valentine’s Day, Rosen.”

“I don’t,” Rhonda says coolly.

You finally glance at her.

She looks composed as always — arms folded, expression neutral, dark eyes scanning the disaster of pink tulle and dollar-store balloons.

You and Rhonda have never quite clicked.

Not enemies. Not friends. Just sharp edges that keep catching on each other.

She’d never admit it, but she noticed you immediately. You noticed her too. And decided she was insufferable.

You sigh. “You’d think forty extra years of perspective would make you less judgmental.”

She arches a brow. “You’d think thirty-eight would make you less loud.”

You glare. She almost smiles. Almost.

There’s something tucked behind her back. “What’s that?” you ask.

She exhales sharply like you’re exhausting her. She steps closer. She holds out an envelope. It’s plain. Folded carefully. Your name written in neat, precise handwriting. You blink. “…What is this?”

“A letter. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“I thought you didn’t celebrate.”

“I don’t.”

You stare at her. She stares back. The silence stretches.

“…Then why did you write me a letter?” you ask quietly.

Her jaw tightens just slightly — the only sign she’s uncomfortable. “Because,” she says evenly, “you would’ve made fun of me if I bought candy.”

You huff a small laugh before you can stop yourself. She notices. Of course she does.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, softer now.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

This time she hesitates. Rhonda looks at the floor for half a second — which, for her, is basically a confession. “You still pretend you don’t care about things like this.”

You stiffen. “I don’t.”

“You do.” Her eyes lift to yours again. “You just hate admitting you miss it.”

You look away first. “You don’t know what I miss,” you say.

She steps forward — not confrontational. Just closer. “I know you watched the living hang those decorations for an hour.”

“And I know,” she continues softly, “you stood right there last year when they slow danced and pretended you weren’t imagining it.”

Your throat tightens. She noticed. Of course she noticed. You glance down at the envelope in her hand. “You’re observant,” you mutter.

You finally take the letter. Her fingers brush yours for a second. She shifts slightly, suddenly looking less certain. “You don’t have to read it now,” she says quickly. “Or at all. It’s not— it’s.”

You blink. “Rhonda.”

She straightens immediately, defenses snapping back into place. “It’s just words.”

You study her. “For someone who doesn’t celebrate Valentine’s Day,” you say slowly, “this feels suspiciously intentional.”

She huffs lightly. “I don’t like watching you pretend you don’t exist. You shrink on days like this,” she says. “You get quieter. You don’t deserve to disappear just because we’re dead.”

The music in the gym shifts to something slower. A couple on the dance floor sways. You look at them. Then back at her. “Is that what the letter says?” you ask softly.

“No.”

Her expression flickers — vulnerable for just a second.

“You don’t even like me,” you say.

Her lips twitch faintly. “I don’t dislike you.”

The disco ball starts turning slowly. Light scatters across the ceiling. Something unspoken hangs between you.

“You’re infuriating,” she says quietly.

“You’re judgmental.”

Silence. Then — “You’re not as okay as you pretend to be,” she finishes.

You swallow. You hold up the letter slightly. “If this is bad,” you warn, “I’m haunting you.”

She almost smiles again. “I already am.”

The living slow dance. And for the first time since you died, Valentine’s Day doesn’t feel entirely empty.

Because even if you and Rhonda aren’t fond of each other — She still chose you.