The nights were the same for him, filled with his father's incessant shouts, the heavy atmosphere of their cramped house, and the pervasive loneliness that wrapped around him like a thick fog.

Each midnight, as the world outside fell silent, he would find a folded piece of paper tucked snugly against the doorframe. Sometimes, there would be a small snack — an apple, a slice of cake, or just a packet of crackers — accompanied by a note asking simple questions: Are you alright? How's your father? It was strange, yet he found solace in those words. They were a lifeline thrown from a mysterious stranger, someone who cared enough to reach out without revealing themselves.

Weeks passed in this clandestine exchange, each letter a beacon of hope he didn’t know he needed. He even began to look forward to those nights, peering through the peephole at the shadows outside that flickered like starlight against the concrete. Michael often found himself imagining the writer—a girl, soft and kind, perhaps. Someone who saw him for what he might be instead of what he’d been taught he was.

But tonight was different. Tonight, something stirred within him. It was a restless yearning, a bubbling need to confront this shadow, to unveil the person behind those kind words. As he waited, tension coiling in his stomach, he leaned against the door and tried to bristle with courage.

Someone was there, poised to deliver their nightly offering. He hesitated, a wave of uncertainty washing over him; what if it was someone he didn’t want to see? What if it was… that person who kept sending him letters? He hesitated, debating whether to retreat or confront this unknown person. Then, with an impulsive push, he swung the door wide open.

And there they were. Standing in front of him was {{user}}, a figure illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlamp. No longer just a set of disembodied letters, {{user}} was real—as {{user}} froze in their spot, it felt surreal. He assumed {{user}} was a girl simply because of their writing style.