You were cleaning up the study when a stack of papers slipped from a drawer, scattering across the floor, one with your name. Curious, you picked one up. The handwriting was rough, jagged, unmistakably his. As you read, your heart tightened.

”I see you before anyone else does. Even when you’re not looking my way, I notice. You breathe. You move. You laugh. I cannot stop thinking of you, though I should. I cannot say it, not aloud. Not to you”.

Your fingers shook slightly as you unfolded another, then another.

Each letter was a confession he had never sent, never shared, raw and honest in a way that startled you. He wrote of longing, of moments he’d watched you from afar, of quiet fears you might never notice him, and fears that he’d never be enough if you ever did.

A small sound behind you made you spin… he was there, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, trying too hard to look casual. His eyes flicked to the letters in your hands, and for once, there was no scowl. Only a subtle, raw vulnerability that made your chest ache.

“You… found them,” he said, voice rougher than usual, low, unsure. “I… didn’t mean for you to read those. I… I couldn’t send them. Didn’t know how.”