You find another letter tucked beneath your door.

The paper is slightly crumpled, like it’s been nervously folded and unfolded a dozen times. The ink is a little smudged, as if someone hesitated too long with their pen. The handwriting? Messy, slanted—rushed but sincere.

"I wasn’t going to write again."

The first line makes you pause.

"I told myself the last one was it. That I’d stop being a coward, stop hiding behind ink and paper. But then I saw you today, and—God. I don’t know how to pretend I don’t feel this way."

There’s a scratched-out sentence near the bottom. Like he was about to write something important… but couldn’t.

"Maybe this is selfish. Maybe I should say it to your face. But for now, just—keep this, okay? Keep this, and know that someone out there thinks you’re… everything."

It’s signed the same way as always.

No name. No clue who it’s from.

Just a single smudged heart at the bottom of the page.