---
The next day, everything felt... different.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that anyone else would notice.
But Lena noticed.
The way Jace looked at her in class—longer now, like he was waiting for something. The way his shoulder brushed hers in the hall, and he didn't apologize. The way her name sounded when he said it—lower, softer, like it wasn't just a name anymore, but a question he hadn't asked out loud yet.
It made her stomach feel weird.
Not bad.
Just... weird.
Like she was standing too close to the edge of something she couldn't quite see.
—
In Creative Writing, Mrs. Duncan handed out an assignment that made the entire class groan.
"Write a letter," she said, "to someone you'll never send it to. Be honest. Be vulnerable. I don't care if it's messy. I care if it's *real*."
Lena tapped her pencil against the edge of her desk.
A letter.
To someone she'd never send it to.
Immediately, one name came to mind—and she hated that it did.
She didn't start writing until hours later, long after she got home and the house was quiet. The rain had returned, softer this time, tapping lightly against her window like a reminder.
She sat at her desk, turned on her lamp, and began to write.
---
**Dear You,**
I don't know when things changed.
I don't even know if they *have*, or if I just want them to.
But I see you now. Not just the loud version—the one who makes jokes to fill silence. I see the other one. The boy who taps his fingers when he's thinking. The one who looks out windows like the world might give him a sign.
I used to think you were arrogant.
Maybe you are.
But there's something else under it.
Something sharp. And tired.
Like you've been holding your breath for too long and forgot what it's like to inhale all the way.
I don't know why I'm writing this.
You'll never read it.
You probably shouldn't.
But it's easier to say things in ink.
—L
She folded the letter once. Then again. Then tucked it into the back of her notebook and closed it before she could change her mind.
---
By Friday, Lena noticed something else.
She'd started looking for him.
Not just casually. *Intentionally.*
At lunch.
In the hallways.
In the small gaps of time between periods, when the world slowed just enough to make space for someone else to step in.
And Jace?
He was always there.
Somehow.
They didn't talk every time.
Sometimes it was just a glance. A shared look across a crowded hallway. A smirk as he passed by. A note scribbled on the corner of her homework—*You spelled "remember" wrong. Twice.*
She'd responded by underlining the word in red and writing: *At least I remembered your name.*
He smiled when he saw it.
She tried not to.
She failed.
—
That afternoon, Jace caught up to her in the parking lot. Rain still clung to the edges of the sky, but the sun was peeking out—like the day hadn't made up its mind yet.
"Wanna walk?" he asked, hands in his jacket pockets.
She hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."
They wandered past the school and down the road that curved behind the track field, neither of them speaking for a while. It wasn't awkward. Just quiet.
Peaceful.
Eventually, Lena broke the silence. "Do you always act like this with people?"
Jace glanced at her. "Like what?"
"Like... you know things they don't. Like you're already five moves ahead."
He thought for a moment. "I guess I just stopped waiting for people to catch up."
"That's kind of arrogant."
He shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe I got tired of pretending to be someone I'm not."
Lena looked ahead, her hands buried in her hoodie pockets. "Yeah," she said softly. "I get that."
—
They ended up at the old bridge near the woods behind the school—a narrow path of rusted metal and worn wooden planks that stretched over the creek. No one came here anymore. Not really.
Jace leaned against the railing, staring down at the water.
"I used to come here when I was a kid," he said. "When things got loud at home."
Lena didn't ask what "loud" meant.
She just listened.
"My dad left when I was ten," he continued, voice steady but distant. "Took his guitar and his temper and just... left."
"I'm sorry," she said.
He shook his head. "I'm not."
She didn't say anything to that.
And neither did he.
—
It started to rain again, but they didn't leave.
Instead, Jace pulled off his jacket and held it over both their heads, their shoulders brushing as they huddled beneath the thin fabric.
Lena laughed, a quiet, startled sound.
"You're ridiculous," she said.
"And you're welcome," he replied.
—
When she got home, her mom was in the kitchen, humming to herself and stirring a pot of something that smelled like cumin and cinnamon.
"Hey, sweetheart," she said. "Good day?"
Lena hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. Kind of weird. But... good."
Her mom smiled. "Weird can be good."
—
That night, Lena opened her notebook again.
She didn't write another letter.
She reread the first one.
Then tucked it deeper into the pages.
Almost like she was afraid someone might find it.
Or like part of her *wanted* them to.
—
The next week came fast.
Too fast.
And with it came the storm.
Not the weather kind.
The *real* kind.
The one that starts in whispers and ends in fallout.
It started with one of Jace's friends—Drew—making a comment in the cafeteria. Loud enough for the nearby tables to hear. Something about Lena. Something crude.
Jace stood up.
No warning. No pause.
Just rage.
Lena didn't hear what he said—too many voices overlapping.
But she saw the punch land.
And the principal dragging them both out of the lunchroom.
Later, in the office, Jace wouldn't meet her eyes.
He looked like a closed door.
Still.
Silent.
Until she said, "You didn't have to do that."
He looked at her then, jaw tight. "Yeah, I did."
—
They both got detention.
Which, in hindsight, was kind of hilarious.
Jace, the guy with a permanent seat in the back of the detention room.
And Lena, who'd never even had a tardy.
They sat next to each other in silence, the clock ticking too loudly.
Finally, she leaned over and whispered, "You're such an idiot."
He smiled.
And whispered back, "You're welcome."
—
When they were released, they didn't go home right away.
They went to the hill behind the soccer field, where the grass was overgrown and the sky opened wide.
Lena lay back, arms folded under her head, eyes on the clouds.
Jace lay beside her, one leg bent, hands resting on his stomach.
"I don't get you," she said eventually.
He chuckled. "Most people don't."
"I mean it. You act like you don't care, but then you go and punch someone for insulting me."
He turned his head to look at her. "I never said I didn't care."
She blinked.
And just like that, the moment stretched.
Long.
Quiet.
Something moved between them.
Not a touch.
Not a kiss.
Just... breath.
Shared breath.
Close enough to matter.
Far enough to wait.
—
When Lena got home that night, she didn't go straight to her room.
She sat in the kitchen, staring at the letter in her notebook again.
Then, slowly, she pulled out a second page.
And began to write.
---