When Your Name Found Mine
Chapter One — The Wrong Letter
The envelope was cream-colored, thick, and bore my name in handwriting I didn't recognize.
It had been slipped into my pigeonhole at the campus mail center, tucked between a flyer for a tutoring service and a notification about overdue library books. Students were always rushing in and out of the building, the air full of chatter, clattering keys, and the constant beeping of the package scanner. But this letter felt like it belonged somewhere quieter — like a secret that had been misplaced.
I almost didn't open it. In a world where our phones could deliver anything instantly — class notes, memes, heartbreak — a letter seemed oddly serious. But curiosity is my worst habit. I tore the flap carefully, feeling the weight of the paper inside.
The handwriting was neat and deliberate, with the kind of elegance that comes from someone who slows down to write instead of scribbling between classes. My eyes caught the first line — and froze.
> Dear Evelyn,
I don't know how else to say this — I miss you. I've missed you for years. I think about the way you used to laugh when the rain hit the glass… and I wonder if I could ever make you laugh like that again.
— Dave
Dave.
I didn't know any Dave who would write to me like that.
It didn't read like something casual. It wasn't a quick "Hey, wanna grab coffee?" note passed under a dorm door. This was personal. Intimate.
I read it again, slower, letting each word sink in. The letter didn't mention a last name, no details about when or where this "rain" memory happened. Just… longing.
It had to be a mistake. Maybe another Evelyn on campus? But my full name was on the envelope: Evelyn Carter, North Residence Hall, Room 312.
I should have walked straight to the front desk, told them there'd been a mix-up. Instead, I tucked the letter into my tote bag and headed across the quad, rain just starting to spit from the gray October sky.
Students were hurrying toward the library and the dining hall, jackets pulled tight, hoodies up. The air smelled faintly of wet leaves and coffee from the campus café. As I passed the engineering building, I caught myself thinking about the letter again — about that one line: the way you used to laugh when the rain hit the glass.
It was so specific I could almost picture it — sitting in one of the corner booths at the café, rain streaking the windows, someone across from me telling a story that made me laugh at just the right moment.
Only… that memory wasn't mine.
By the time I reached my dorm, the rain was falling harder, misting my hair and the front of my sweater. I took the stairs two at a time, my tote bag thumping against my side, the letter inside like a small, pulsing question.
My roommate, Kayla, was sprawled on her bed with her laptop, headphones in, mouthing along to whatever video she was watching. She didn't look up as I crossed to my desk and set the letter down beside my psychology textbook.
I stared at it for a long moment before finally pulling out my phone. A quick search of the campus directory showed three Daves currently enrolled. Two were undergraduates, one was a graduate student. No last names that sounded familiar.
The sensible thing to do would've been to email all of them: "Hey, I think this letter was meant for someone else." Problem solved. But there was something about the way Dave had written — like he'd been holding these words in for years — that made me hesitate.
And then, because I'm apparently incapable of letting a mystery go, I started wondering which one of those Daves might be my Dave.
Not that he was mine.
Not yet.
That night, after Kayla went to the library, I sat by the window with a cup of tea and read the letter again. Outside, the rain kept falling, streaking the glass, blurring the campus lights into soft halos. Somewhere out there, Dave was walking the same sidewalks, maybe sitting in a classroom a few buildings away, maybe looking at his own handwriting and wondering if it had reached the right Evelyn.
The thought should have been unsettling. Instead, it made the night feel charged, as though the rain was carrying more than just water — as though it was carrying possibility.
When I finally slipped the letter back into its envelope, I didn't put it away. I left it on my desk where I'd see it first thing in the morning.
Because even though it might be meant for someone else, a part of me couldn't help but wonder:
What if it isn't a mistake at all?