By Wednesday, the city felt smaller somehow. Every corner, every flickering neon sign, seemed to carry Sasha's laugh. Lila's notebook was heavier in her backpack, brimming with letters she hadn't mailed—or shown anyone. Each word she wrote felt like a heartbeat she wasn't ready to share.
It was in art class that things shifted. Lila was sketching a cityscape, dark ink blending into soft shades of violet, when someone plopped down beside her.
"You always draw the city like it's alive," Sasha said, peering over her shoulder. Her violet-tipped hair spilled over her shoulder, brushing Lila's arm.
Lila froze. "I… uh… yeah. I like… the way it moves," she stammered, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Sasha smiled, tilting her head. "I like the way you see it. You notice things… most people don't."
Author's Thought: Sometimes, noticing someone is the first step toward truly seeing them.
They spent the next hour side by side, sketching, laughing at small mistakes, and exchanging quiet observations about the city. Words began to feel less dangerous in Sasha's presence. It was as if her laughter pulled the weight of silence out of Lila's chest.
When the bell rang, Lila's hand lingered over her notebook, the urge to write almost overwhelming. "Do you… um… want to see what I wrote?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sasha raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparkling. "Only if it's safe to read without falling in love with it," she teased.
Lila laughed, a nervous, bright sound she hadn't realized she'd been holding back. "Maybe it's safer to leave it unwritten… for now."
They walked out together, the city buzzing around them, neon reflections catching in puddles from last night's rain. For the first time, Lila didn't feel invisible. She felt like her words—messy, unpolished, real—could exist in the world, maybe even shared with someone who would understand.
Author's Thought: Some confessions remain unwritten, but that doesn't make them any less powerful. Sometimes, the right person simply changes the way you hold your pen.
That night, Lila sat by her window, quill in hand, the city stretching out below her like a living canvas. She wrote again, but this time the letters weren't addressed to nobody. They were addressed to maybe somebody.
And somewhere between the ink and the heartbeat, a story that had begun in secret was beginning to bloom.