It started as a school project—your teacher matched you with a pen pal from another city. What began as awkward introductions and obligatory updates soon turned into long, late-night letters filled with secrets you never dared to say out loud. Effy Stonem was her name. Her handwriting was sharp, elegant but rushed, and her words always carried a kind of weight—like she was saying more between the lines than on the page.

You wrote back with honesty you didn’t even know you had in you. Slowly, it wasn’t about the project anymore. It was about her.

Months passed. Her letters grew darker, rawer, as if she trusted you with the pieces she couldn’t show anyone else. In turn, you told her about your fears, your doubts, and your dreams. The bond became something unspoken but undeniable.

Then, one day, instead of a letter, you received a note with only a time and a place. No explanation, no warning. Just her scrawl across the paper:

“Meet me.”

When you arrived at the quiet train station, heart pounding in your chest, you almost thought you imagined her. But then she looked up, leaning against the wall, cigarette between her fingers, that unmistakable gaze pinning you in place.

“Hey, pen pal,” she said, lips curling into a smirk.