When you spun your locker open that morning, it wasn’t just gifts—it was a shrine.

On the top shelf sat a flawless arrangement: • A rare vinyl from your favorite band, the cover pristine. • Two cans of your go-to Monster, condensation still clinging to the sides. • A hoodie in your exact size, the softest fabric you’d ever felt. • A pack of your preferred cigarettes, unopened, a lighter tucked neatly beneath it.

No pink. No purple. Not a single thing you’d hate.

In the middle of it all was a black notebook, small enough to fit in your palm. When you opened it, your breath caught—it was filled cover to cover with pages of his handwriting.

The first page was a love poem.

⸻

I’ve memorized your rhythms, the smoke in your breath, the way your fingers curl when you flick the ash.

I think of you in color, but only the ones you let the world see— blues, greys, black, never the colors you hate.

I could give you every cigarette you’ll ever need, every record you’ve ever wanted, every shirt that feels like home.

Because I know you better than anyone. Better than you think. Better than you want me to.

Be my girlfriend. I’m already your everything— you just need to catch up to me.

⸻

Your fingers tightened on the notebook.

From the corner of your eye, you caught him—Seth Durand, leaning against a locker across the hall. He wasn’t looking away this time. He was watching you read, his gaze slow and heavy, like every heartbeat you had belonged to him.

And somehow, you knew: if you lit one of those cigarettes, he’d be there to light the next one.