The Quiet Girl’s Secret

(Sam's POV )

I told myself I wouldn't read it again.

That was this morning.

By third period, I'd already read it three more times.

The pink envelope stayed tucked in the front pocket of my bag, crushed slightly between a half-used lip balm and the receipt from yesterday's smoothie. But it might as well have been pressed against my skin. I could feel it, even when I wasn't touching it.

I don't know why it got under my skin like that.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't poetic. No metaphors or dramatic flourishes. Just… careful words. Honest words. Thoughtful in a way most things in my life weren't.

You carry yourself like you don't owe the world anything—and I wish I knew how to do that.

Every time I read that line, something snagged in my chest.

Because I didn't carry myself like that.

I carried myself like I'd learned to — spine straight, voice calm, eyes just sharp enough that no one questioned if I belonged.

But they'd seen through it.

Whoever wrote that letter… had seen something no one else had.

And that was terrifying.

By the time I reached the court for after-lunch practice, my head was still full of it.

We were prepping for the regional qualifiers, so the drills were long and the energy was low.

I moved through the motions like muscle memory — pivot, pass, break. But my mind wasn't on the plays. It was stuck on the paper folded in my hoodie pocket like it had become a part of me.

"Walker," Coach barked, "eyes up!"

I caught the pass just in time, nearly fumbling it before sending it back down the line.

"Get your head in the game."

I nodded, wiped sweat from my forehead, and forced my breathing to slow.

Even Anya, our starting forward, gave me a weird look during water break.

"You good?" she asked, unscrewing her bottle.

"Fine."

"You seem… floaty."

I shrugged. "Didn't sleep well."

"Maybe try caffeine. Or a lobotomy. Whatever works."

She grinned, and I gave a half-hearted one back. I liked Anya. She didn't push. And she never asked questions she didn't need answers to.

After practice, I dragged myself through the locker room, arms aching, hair sticking to the back of my neck. I changed fast, rolled my sleeves up just enough to cool off, and grabbed my bag.

The letter shifted as I zipped it closed.

A silent reminder.

I didn't dare take it out again. Not here.

In history class, I barely heard a word.

Something about revolutions. Dates. A quiz next week.

The letter burned behind my eyes like a half-memory. Not even the actual words — just the space between them. The pauses. The way some lines didn't say everything but somehow said enough.

There was a moment during class where I felt someone looking at me.

I glanced up.

Just a few students scribbling notes. One kid tapping a pencil against their mouth like they were composing a haiku.

No one stood out.

But something prickled beneath my skin anyway.

After school, Alex found me outside the gates.

He was balancing an iced tea, a bag of pretzels, and his usual too-casual swagger.

"You're acting weird," he said.

"I'm always weird."

"No, you're being, like, meaning-of-life weird. You get dumped or something?"

"Have to be in a relationship for that."

He eyed me. "It's the letter, isn't it?"

I paused.

"You know about it?"

He grinned. "You've been walking around like someone put a Shakespeare monologue in your cereal. It's either love or existential doom. Flip a coin."

"I don't know what it is."

"Who's it from?"

"No idea."

"Do you want to know?"

That made me stop walking.

I hated how much I didn't have an answer.

What if it wasn't real?

What if it was a prank? A dare? A joke to see if Sam Walker — untouchable, unshakeable — could be made to blush?

And worse… what if it was real?

What if someone had actually looked at me and seen the pieces I tried to hide?

What then?

Back home, I showered, ate something half-warm from the microwave, and curled up on my bed, towel still around my hair.

The letter sat unfolded on my comforter.

My lamp buzzed overhead, flickering once, then casting a soft amber glow over everything.

I read the lines again.

Whispered some of them under my breath.

You're not perfect. But you're real. And maybe that's rarer than anything else.

No name. No hint. No angle.

Just… a truth I wasn't sure I deserved.

I stared at the handwriting.

It wasn't bubbly or messy. Just… clean. A little slanted. Every word evenly spaced. No visible corrections.

There was something precise about it. Controlled.

Not someone rushing.

Someone thinking.

I fixated on the curl of the lowercase y — it looped up, not down. Like someone who didn't know the "normal" way to write but made it work anyway.

It felt personal.

Like a fingerprint.

Eventually, I opened my Notes app and typed:

Unknown Letter — Locker 212

→ Found after 4th period

→ Pink envelope, smooth paper

→ No name, no stickers, no perfume

→ Written in one go — no corrections

→ Slightly right-leaning slant

→ Emotional tone: observant, careful, intimate

→ Voice: someone who pays attention

→ Feels genuine

→ Gender: ???

My thumb hovered over that last line.

I hadn't thought about it until then.

Could be a guy. Could be a girl. Could be someone in-between.

I didn't know why the possibility unsettled me.

Not in a bad way. Just… a shift. Like I'd been looking through the wrong lens this whole time.

I backspaced the last line.

Closed Notes.

Put the letter under my phone case again.

Not because I wanted to hide it.

But because I wasn't ready to let it go.

I turned off the lights.

Pulled the blanket up to my chin.

And whispered one last line into the dark.

I see you.

I didn't sleep much.

Not from fear. Not from confusion.

Just… longing.

Like a string had been tied to something I couldn't name — and I didn't want it to disappear.

[End of Chapter 8 – Words Without a Name]

There was no name. No reason. No face.

But it found me anyway.

And now I couldn't stop waiting for the next one.