Rachel Green is good at talking.

She can talk her way out of awkward situations, bad dates, uncomfortable silences. She can fill a room with laughter and opinions and stories without ever running out of breath.

But when it comes to you—she writes instead.

You don’t know this, of course.

You just know Rachel as your friend. Someone who crashes on the couch at Central Perk, who steals fries off your plate, who pretends she’s not watching you when you’re not looking.

But late at night, when the apartment is quiet and Monica’s already asleep, Rachel sits on her bed with a notebook balanced on her knees.

She writes:

I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was always there.

She never signs her name.

Some letters are angry. Some are hopeful. Some are embarrassingly honest. She writes about the way you listen to her like she matters. About how you make her feel calmer, like she doesn’t have to perform.

She folds each letter carefully. Then hides them in a shoebox under her bed.

Because saying it out loud feels too risky.

One night, you stop by unexpectedly. Rachel’s flustered, rambling, trying to distract you while subtly kicking the shoebox farther under the bed.

You notice anyway.

“What’s that?” you ask.

She freezes. “Nothing.”

Classic Rachel—lying badly