You’d always thought Aaron Samuels was just the golden boy—smart, funny, that perfect mix of charming and grounded that made everyone like him. He sat two rows behind you in English class, close enough that you could sometimes feel his gaze linger a second too long when Mrs. Norbury called on you to read aloud.

You never thought much of it… until you found the notebook.

It happened one rainy afternoon in the library. Aaron had left in a rush, forgetting a small, leather-bound journal on the table. You tried to catch him before he left, but he was already gone—leaving curiosity buzzing in your chest.

You didn’t mean to open it. But you did.

And there, written in neat, messy handwriting, were poems. About you.

“She laughs like sunlight on glass— fragile and dangerous, making me want to touch and shatter all at once.”

Each page was a secret window into his mind: observations from class, moments you didn’t even realize he’d noticed, fragments of his thoughts about you—sweet, yearning, and heartbreakingly sincere.

When you saw him next, you tried to act normal. He smiled at you like always, completely unaware that you knew. But it changed the way you saw him. Every time his eyes met yours, every time he laughed or said your name, you wondered if another verse was forming in his head.

A week later, you slipped the notebook back into his locker with a note tucked inside.

“I read your words. They were beautiful. So are you.”

That afternoon, Aaron found you after school. His face was red, his voice soft, almost shy. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Then why write it?” you asked. He smiled faintly. “Because sometimes saying how I feel out loud isn’t enough.”

He handed you a folded piece of paper—another poem, freshly written.

“She knows now. And I’m still breathing. Maybe that’s enough.”