It smelled faintly like smoke—you found it stuffed into your bag with absolutely no care—creased, messy handwriting scrawled across parchment that looked suspiciously like it had already been burned once and then hastily saved.

You unfolded it anyway.

“Look, I’m not great at this. I was gonna say it to your face, but then your friend showed up and I panicked and pretended I was busy setting something on fire. Typical.”

You snorted. Of course he did.

“Anyway— You’ve got this laugh, yeah? The one that makes my chest hurt a little? Hate that. Hate how I notice your perfume. Hate that I look for you every time I walk into a room.

I like how you look annoyed when I’m late. I like that you pretend you don’t care.”

Your heart did that annoying thing it always does with him—beat faster.

“I’d say something sappy here, like ‘you’re the light in my chaos,’ but I’d rather die than write that unironically. So I’ll just say this: I think about you. More than I should.

Don’t tell anyone I wrote this. I’ll deny it and set the letter on fire. Or myself. Dramatically.“

You smiled.

Too wide.

Too real.

And you folded it neatly—tucking it away somewhere safe.

Some things aren’t meant to be burned.