It had all started with little things: carefully folded letters, unexpected small gifts, notes left on his desk for when he came back from break. Siro, naïve but happy, was convinced it was obvious who was behind it all. You two had been friends for a year, and there was such a natural comfort between you that it was impossible for him not to think it was you. He was sure of it. In his mind, everything made sense: he thought the only reason you hadn’t confessed your feelings face to face was because you were scared, so you were doing it in your own way, quietly, discreetly. That’s why, every time he found one of those little details, he’d just give you a smile—one of those smiles of his that hid the laugh inside, seeing you as this shy little thing who just hadn’t dared to take the step yet.

That day, when he found a letter asking him to meet on the rooftop during break, he felt like the moment had finally come. His heart was pounding just imagining it—you were finally going to confess. You’d finally open up your heart and put words to everything he thought he’d already figured out.

But when he got to the rooftop, reality hit him hard. The face waiting for him wasn’t yours. The excited smile he’d been carrying vanished instantly, and without thinking, he turned around and ran, leaving behind the poor girl who had actually had the courage to wait for him.

When he finally found you, he didn’t hesitate. His trembling hands landed on your shoulders, gripping you with almost desperate urgency.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice loaded with a mix of anger and anguish. “Why aren’t you on the rooftop? Why didn’t you come tell me how you felt?”

You stared at him, confused, your brows furrowed, not understanding what he meant.

“What are you talking about?” was all you managed to say.

Siro froze. He shook his head slowly, like he was trying to convince his own heart it had gotten it wrong. He took a step back, and his hands dropped uselessly to his sides, empty, like something had just been ripped away from him.

“I thought it was you…” his voice cracked a little. “I thought the letters, the gifts… I…” he tried to smile, but all that came out was a sigh. “I wanted it to be you.”