The clock on Mia's bedside table stubbornly read 2:47 AM. She groaned, punching her pillow. Sleep was a foreign concept. Kris Windsor's Lysander kept performing an encore in her head, his rich voice echoing, his intense eyes burning. It was infuriating. How could someone so utterly obnoxious, so adept at being a 'spoiled rich brat,' possess such raw, magnetic talent? It didn't make sense. And it threatened to completely upend her entire understanding of him, which was, quite frankly, unsettling.
She wanted to tell him. To acknowledge it. To, God forbid, praise him. But the words stuck in her throat, strangled by years of ingrained rivalry and the fresh sting of their bet. Her ego, a formidable opponent in its own right, stood firm. No. Absolutely not. You will not give him the satisfaction.
But the thought wouldn't leave her. It gnawed at her, a strange, insistent urge to somehow convey her grudging awe. Then, an idea, born of sleep-deprived desperation and artistic impulse, sparked in her mind. Anonymous.
She scrambled out of bed, fumbling for her desk lamp. She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, chosen for its smooth texture, and a fine-tipped pen. Her thoughts, usually a whirlwind, narrowed to a single, pure intention. No name. No personal details. Just the truth.
Her pen flowed across the page, crafting careful, precise words. She wrote about the surprise, the unexpected power of his voice, the way he had commanded the stage. She wrote about the raw, undeniable talent, the kind that made an audience truly feel. She kept it brief, concise, devoid of flowery praise, but unmistakably genuine. She signed it simply: "A Fellow Observer." She folded the note carefully, slipped it into a plain white envelope, and sealed it. As an unconscious habit, without thinking, her pen grazed the bottom right corner of the sealed envelope, leaving behind a tiny, almost imperceptible swirl of elegant lines—a signature flourish that only someone who knew her art intimately might recognize, a faint whisper of her unique, abstract style. It was a silent confession of admiration she couldn't voice aloud. She placed it by her alarm clock, a mission for the morning.
The next morning, however, started exactly as any other morning with Kris Windsor. She spotted him by the vending machines, looking infuriatingly fresh and well-rested. He caught her eye, and the usual bickering session ignited immediately, without preamble, like a well-rehearsed play.
"Morning, Princess," Kris drawled, leaning casually against the machine, already halfway through a protein bar. "Still dreaming of that lead role? Or are you rehearsing your acceptance speech for 'Most Likely To Get Stage Fright'?"
Mia's hand instinctively tightened around the anonymous letter tucked into her bag. The moment to subtly slip it to him, to deliver her anonymous truth, vanished in a puff of exasperation. "And you, Windsor? Still rehearsing your lines for 'Most Obnoxious Person Alive'?" she shot back, her carefully constructed morning calm evaporating. "Or did the pressure of actually having to perform scare you back into hiding?"
"Oh, the pressure is precisely what makes it fun, unlike certain people who crumble under the spotlight," he countered, pushing off the machine and beginning to walk alongside her down the hall, their verbal sparring partner.
James, walking a few paces behind them, rubbed his temples. "It's too early for this," he mumbled, already exhausted by their familiar rhythm. "Can't you two just... exist without a verbal sparring match?"
The anonymous letter felt like a lead weight in Mia's bag. She couldn't give it to him now. Not amidst this. He'd never believe it was genuine. She tried again later, near the library, near the quad. Every time, their paths crossed, the bickering would erupt, a natural reflex, and the opportunity would slip away.
Finally, exasperated, Mia cornered James by his locker. "James," she pleaded, holding out the plain white envelope. "I need your help."
He eyed the envelope suspiciously. "What is it? A new revenge plot? Because I'm still recovering from the last one. And no, I'm not hiding glitter in his bike helmet."
"No!" Mia whispered, her voice urgent. "It's... it's not a prank. It's a letter."
James raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "A letter? You and Windsor? I thought you preferred shouting at each other."
"It's complicated," she sighed, exasperated. "And it's... anonymous. I just need you to put it in his locker. Please, James. It's important." She gave him her ultimate weapon: the full-blown puppy-dog eyes, widening them, adding a slight tremble to her lower lip.
James groaned, recognizing the look of utter defeat. He knew Mia's puppy eyes were an unbreakable force. "Mia, you know how he is. If he finds out it's from you—"
"He won't!" Mia insisted. "It's anonymous! And he won't expect it from you! Just... please, James. I can't. Not with the constant bickering. Just slip it in."
James weighed the pleading look against the potential fallout. He knew how much Mia hated losing face, and how much this whole drama club thing was getting to her. And for all their annoyance, he truly cared about her. He pinched the bridge of his nose again. "Fine," he sighed, reaching for the envelope, "but if I get detention for being a 'messenger of mischief,' you're buying me a month's worth of coffee."
Mia beamed, relief washing over her. "Deal! You're the best, James!"
"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, tucking the envelope into his bag. "Just try not to start another war before I can deliver this. For my sanity's sake."
The stage was set for their drama club performance, but it seemed the real drama was just beginning, playing out in anonymous letters and locker drops, adding layers of bewildering complexity to the fiery, undeniable connection between Mia Brown and Kris Windsor.