Chapter 3: Notes Between Pages
688 Words
Eliana couldn’t concentrate in class the next day. Her psychology professor might as well have been speaking in Morse code. Her thoughts kept drifting—back to the letter, to the careful handwriting, to the way her name had never been used, yet she knew it was meant for her.
Whoever was writing to her… they knew her routine. They noticed the little things. And now, they knew she had been looking for them.
That made it real.
That made it scarier, too.
After class, she didn’t hesitate. She headed straight for the library, climbed the worn staircase to the second floor, and slipped quietly into her usual seat.
She had a note ready this time.
It had taken her an hour to write. And two hours to decide whether or not to bring it.
It read:
You say you notice me. But I’m starting to notice you too, even if I don’t know who you are. You don’t have to stay hidden forever. I’m not scary. I promise. I don’t know if this is something serious or just a sweet mystery, but I think I want to keep going, wherever this leads.
— Someone who’s noticing you back.
She didn’t know where to leave it. She wasn’t sure if there was a system. So she folded the note and placed it gently inside Wuthering Heights, which was three shelves away from her usual spot—the same book where she’d once found a pressed flower last year. Somehow, it felt right.
Then she sat, opened a novel she had no intention of reading, and waited.
No one came.
She stayed for an hour.
Still no one.
At five o’clock, the library lights dimmed slightly, a subtle hint that closing time was coming soon.
Eliana sighed, packed her things, and left.
The next morning, a message was waiting in her locker.
Not a school locker—but the cubby where students kept books on hold. It was rare to use them unless you had requested a specific title, and she hadn’t. But something caught her eye as she passed: a manila envelope with her name handwritten on the label.
Inside it was a single page.
Wuthering Heights, huh? Dramatic choice. I like it. You probably think I’ve read it. I haven’t. I know, I know—don’t throw your bookmark at me.
But I did read your note. I sat at the other end of the library and watched you place it. I almost came over. I wanted to. But I’m not ready yet. You deserve someone who speaks clearly. Right now, I only know how to write.
Is that okay? If I stay anonymous… just a little longer?
I’m not hiding because I want to tease you. I just don’t want to ruin something good by being too much of a disappointment in person.
But I’m here. I’m real. And I think about you more than I probably should.
— The One Who Writes
Eliana leaned against the lockers, the note clutched in her hands.
She didn’t realize she was smiling.
That night, she texted Maria.
Eliana: I got another letter.
Maria: And???
Eliana: He saw me leave the note. He was there. Watching. He just… wasn’t ready to talk yet.
Maria: Girl, this is the slowest love story in history, but I’m hooked.
Eliana: I know. I can’t explain it. I should be creeped out, but I’m not. It feels honest. Like he’s figuring it out in real time.
Maria: As long as it stays honest and safe… keep going.
Eliana: I think I want to.
The next afternoon, Eliana returned to Wuthering Heights.
This time, she left a new letter inside:
You don’t have to rush. I don’t need a face yet. But maybe next time, tell me something real about you—just one thing.
A favorite song. A memory. A dream. Anything.
If we’re going to write a story, let’s make it ours.
— Me.
She slid it carefully between pages 86 and 87, then walked away without looking back.
But inside her chest, her heart wasn’t just fluttering anymore.
It was hoping.
- Writer
