2

Nevan’s POV)

Another letter.

I found it the moment I opened my locker. Tucked neatly on top of my books, folded with care, its familiar creamy paper and soft ink almost taunting me now.

I didn’t even need to open it to know what it was. I could feel it in my fingertips — the way it pulsed with the same quiet longing I’d come to recognize. Every few weeks. Every month. Like clockwork. No name. No clues. Just emotion.

Still, I couldn’t help it.

I leaned back against the locker, blocking out the morning buzz of the hallway, and opened it carefully. The handwriting was the same — neat, delicate, and hauntingly beautiful.

Dear Nevan,

I know you still don’t know who I am.

Maybe you don’t care. Maybe you think this is all just a silly game. But it’s not.

Not for me.

Every word I write, I mean. Every time I say I adore you — I mean it. Every time I watch you walk by and feel my chest ache, knowing I can’t reach out, I mean that, too.

You think you have everything — and maybe you do. The looks. The charm. The money. The girls. The boys. Anyone you want. But that’s not what I see when I look at you.

I see someone trying so hard to keep his heart untouched that he’s starting to forget he even has one.

But I see it. And I want to hold it. Just once.

— Yours. Always.

I stared at the last line.

"Yours. Always."

Who the hell ends letters like that anymore?

And yet... it made my chest feel strange. Like something soft was growing inside it. Dangerous and tender.

I wasn’t used to being spoken to like that — not without wanting something in return.

This person — whoever they were — never asked for anything. Never expected me to write back. Never even hinted at who they were.

It should’ve felt weird. Maybe even creepy.

But somehow... it didn’t.

It felt real. It felt raw.