When Your Name Found Mine
Chapter Six — The Notebook
By Monday morning, the fair felt like a dream I'd half-woken from. My desk still held the fox plush and the maple leaf, a tiny shrine to the weekend. And then there was the letter, folded neatly in its envelope, sitting like a secret that kept daring me to look at it again.
I hadn't told anyone about it. Not my roommate Mia, not even my best friend from high school, Julia, who could usually get the truth out of me faster than anyone. I told myself it was because the whole thing was probably just a mix-up. But if that was true, why did I keep thinking about the way Dave had looked at me by the bonfire, as though there was something he wanted to say but couldn't?
---
Our first lecture of the week was Intro to Modern Poetry. I walked into the auditorium balancing my coffee and notebook, scanning for a seat. Dave was already there, in the back row, scribbling in his spiral-bound notebook.
I slid into the seat next to him. "Hey."
He looked up, smiling in that easy way of his. "Morning."
I noticed his handwriting as he set down his pen. Looped, deliberate, with the same kind of spacing I'd seen on the letter. My stomach gave a little jolt.
Coincidence, I told myself. People had similar handwriting all the time.
The professor started lecturing on love poems from the early 20th century, reading aloud lines about longing, absence, and the ache of waiting for someone. Every word seemed to lodge itself in my chest.
Halfway through the class, Dave leaned over and whispered, "You're zoning out."
"Just thinking," I whispered back.
"About what?"
I hesitated. "About how some people can say so much in just a few lines."
He nodded, and for a moment, it felt like he understood exactly what I meant — maybe more than I wanted him to.
---
After class, we both had an hour before our next lectures, so we wandered toward the student café. The place was buzzing, every table crowded with laptops, textbooks, and half-empty mugs. We squeezed into a small table in the corner.
Dave set his notebook down, flipping it closed before I could catch another glimpse of what was inside.
"You always write during class?" I asked casually.
"Sometimes," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Helps me think."
"About assignments?"
"About… other things." His eyes flicked to mine.
I wanted to ask what other things, but instead I said, "You ever write letters?"
His brow lifted slightly. "Letters?"
"You know. The old-fashioned kind. Paper, pen, envelopes."
"Not really," he said after a pause. "Why?"
"No reason," I said quickly, sipping my coffee to cover my nerves.
But his pause — not long enough to be awkward, just long enough to notice — made my thoughts spiral.
---
That night, I was in the library finishing an essay when I saw him again. He was at a table near the window, writing in his notebook, his head bent over the page. The rest of the library was silent except for the faint hum of the heating system and the occasional squeak of a chair.
I tried not to watch him, but I kept catching myself glancing over. There was something almost old-fashioned about the way he wrote — like he was keeping thoughts he didn't want to live only in his phone.
When he left, he slipped the notebook into his backpack. As he walked past me, he smiled and tapped the table. "Don't stay too late."
"I won't," I said, even though I already knew I would.
---
The next day, it rained. Campus was a blur of umbrellas and wet sidewalks. My sneakers squeaked against the floor of the library where I'd ducked in to avoid another downpour.
That's when I saw it — Dave's notebook.
It was on the edge of the returns desk, clearly forgotten. The front cover was plain black, with a faint crease down the middle where it had been folded back too often.
I stood there for a moment, heart hammering. I could turn it in to lost and found. That would be the normal thing to do.
Or… I could look.
I told myself I'd just open to the first page, just enough to see if it even belonged to him.
The first page was blank. But the second wasn't.
The handwriting — that deliberate loop, that even spacing — was unmistakable. My eyes scanned the lines before I could stop myself:
> October 3 — I don't know why I keep thinking about the way she smiled at the fair. I wanted to tell her something, but the moment passed. I'm not sure if she knows the letter was from me.
I slammed the notebook shut so fast it made a dull thud against the desk. My pulse roared in my ears.
The letter was from him.
---
I handed the notebook to the librarian, mumbling something about finding it near the window tables. Then I left, the rain hitting my shoulders in cold splatters.
The walk back to my dorm was a blur. My mind kept looping the same words: the letter was from me.
It explained everything — the way he'd looked at me in the café, the pause when I'd asked about letters, the way he seemed to notice little things like the leaf and the fox.
But it also raised more questions. Why hadn't he said anything? Why send it anonymously?
By the time I reached my room, my hair was plastered to my face and my jacket was soaked through. Mia wasn't there, so I changed into dry clothes and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the letter again.
The words felt different now, heavier somehow, knowing they'd come from him.
---
That evening, I saw Dave outside the residence hall, leaning against the railing and talking to a friend. When he noticed me, his smile was immediate, warm.
"Hey," he said. "You disappeared after class today."
"Had to get out of the rain," I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt.
He glanced at the dark clouds still rolling overhead. "Looks like it's not stopping anytime soon."
There was a pause. The kind that wasn't awkward, but charged.
I almost told him I knew. I almost asked why.
Instead, I just said, "Thanks for the fox. And the leaf."
His expression softened. "Anytime."
And then, almost too quietly for me to hear: "You keep those."
As I walked past him into the building, I knew two things: one, Dave had written the letter. And two, whatever this was between us, it wasn't over. Not even close.