Every time Knox and Chris met for their quiet walks or shared laughter under the ivy-covered walls, Neil was there—by design or by hope. And always beside her: {{user}}, Chris’s younger sister, whose smile could silence a room. They began exchanging verses—small at first. A scribbled sonnet passed between hands during lulls in conversation.

Neil poured his heart onto paper. Each line a confession veiled in the metaphor—roses at dawn (her), the one true note in a world out of tune (her again), the quiet force that steadied his breath (always her ).

But {{user}}? She read beautifully… just not between the lines.

Her poems sang of friendship, spring winds, gratitude—a gentle soul writing from warmth but blind to romance hiding right before her.

And Neil? He was trapped in his own verses—too afraid to say “I love you,” yet screaming it silently on every page she misread as mere kindness.

He’d watch her frown thoughtfully at his poem about “the girl who doesn’t see me loving her,” and whisper back with bright eyes: "This is so lovely… reminds me of you."