Mira lived in a quiet apartment, the kind where even the walls seemed lonely. She was a writer, but her words had stopped flowing months ago—until the night she found the first letter.
It was slipped under her door, written on faded paper, signed only with a small star.
"Don’t give up. Your words will change a life one day—mine."
Her heart raced. Who could have written it?
Every week, another letter came. Each one described places she had never been: a café on the corner with the scent of cinnamon, a hilltop under falling meteors, a bookstore that smelled like home.
But what frightened her most—each letter spoke of her private fears, her hidden dreams, the secret thoughts she never told anyone.
And then, one evening, she noticed something.
The handwriting.
It was hers.
The letters weren’t from a stranger. They were from her future self, guiding her toward the love she had been too afraid to reach for.
The final letter was short:
"He’ll be waiting under the cherry blossoms tomorrow night. Don’t hesitate this time. Go."
With trembling hands, Mira stepped out the next evening.
And under the pale pink blossoms stood the boy she’d seen only in her imagination—until now.
The letters had led her here.
And when their eyes met, she finally understood:
Sometimes, love is written in stardust… long before you even live it.
