Rue never told you she wrote poetry.

You found out by accident.

You were sitting beside her on the floor of her bedroom, backs against the bed, the window cracked open just enough to let in night air and distant street noise. Rue was unusually quiet—focused in a way that made you suspicious.

“What’re you doing?” you asked.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly, notebook snapping shut.

You raised an eyebrow. “Rue.”

She sighed, dramatic. “You’re ruining the mystery.”

“The mystery of… a notebook?”

She glanced at you, then away. “It’s dumb.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

She hesitated, fingers tapping against the spiral. Finally, she pushed the notebook toward you, not meeting your eyes.

“Don’t read it out loud,” she muttered. “And don’t analyze it. And don’t ask why it’s about you.”

You froze. “It’s about me?”

“Regretting this already,” she groaned, pulling her hoodie sleeves over her hands.