The first letter
The campus was noisy that morning, students rushing to classes with cups of coffee in hand, the autumn wind scattering yellow leaves across the quad. Ethan wasn’t one for rushing. He liked blending in—headphones on, hoodie pulled over, mind elsewhere.
But that day, when he opened his locker, something slipped out.
A folded envelope. No name, no stamp—just his locker number written neatly in black ink.
For a second, Ethan thought it was a mistake. Wrong locker, wrong person. He bent down, picked it up, and hesitated. His locker was usually stuffed with textbooks and flyers, not… letters.
He turned the envelope over. Sealed. His heartbeat quickened—not from excitement, but from the unfamiliarity of it.
Curiosity won. He tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, handwritten in slanted cursive:
“You probably don’t notice me, but I notice you.
I see the way you sit by the library window, always lost in your thoughts.
You look lonely, but beautiful in your loneliness.
This isn’t a joke. You deserve to be adored.
– Someone who already does.”
Ethan froze. His throat went dry, the words sinking in.
Someone who already does.
He read it again. And again. His chest tightened, part fear, part something warmer—flattery he didn’t want to admit. Nobody ever called him beautiful, not out loud. Not in writing.
He crumpled the letter slightly in his grip, unsure what to do. Throw it away? Laugh it off?
“Hey, what’s that?”
The sudden voice made him jump. Liam, his roommate, leaned casually against the locker next to his, grinning. Liam always grinned—confident, golden-haired, the type who had admirers of his own.
“Nothing,” Ethan muttered quickly, shoving the letter into his pocket.
Liam raised a brow. “Ooooh. ‘Nothing’ looks suspicious. Is that a love letter?”
Ethan forced a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But Liam kept smirking. “Man, you’ve got the secret vibe, I’m telling you. All quiet, mysterious… it was bound to happen.”
Ethan rolled his eyes and slammed his locker shut. He didn’t want to explain—mostly because he didn’t understand it himself.
As he walked to class, the words from the letter echoed in his head.
You deserve to be adored.
That evening, alone in his dorm room, he pulled the letter out again. Read it under the desk lamp. The handwriting was careful, almost elegant. Whoever wrote it wasn’t careless. They meant it.
And if they could describe him so well—his library seat, his habits—then they were watching. Someone close. Someone on campus.
Ethan swallowed.
Somewhere in the halls, maybe even in the next room, his admirer might be waiting.
