The Quiet Girl’s Secret

The third day, I checked my locker three times before lunch.

Nothing.

No pink envelope. No folded corners. No fresh handwriting.

Just my books, a pair of backup socks from practice, and a crushed granola bar I should've thrown out last week.

I stared at the empty space like it had betrayed me.

I wasn't proud of how restless I was.But the first two letters had cracked something open, and now my head wouldn't shut up.

Who was it?

Why those words?

Why me?

And—most dangerously—why did I want more?

I pulled the first letter from my hoodie pocket again.

Yes, I was carrying it now.It had become this… weird emotional talisman. I didn't know how else to explain it. I didn't feel comfortable leaving it in my bag or locker anymore. That felt too impersonal. Too far away.

Like the letter was somehow more alive the closer it stayed to me.

I sat under the bleachers after class, feet dangling, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, staring at the ceiling beams like they had answers.

The gym had mostly emptied. A few freshmen were still taking shots on the other side of the court. I wasn't coaching today, wasn't playing. I didn't even bring my shoes.

I just needed the space. The stillness.

And maybe the echo.

I read the second letter again.

The words sat in my chest like heat.Not burning. Just lingering.

It wasn't your face. Or the way people talk about you like you're some school-wide myth.It was the way you were quiet when it mattered. The things that didn't shout.

I chewed on the cap of my pen.

These weren't just compliments.They were... studied. Thoughtful. Personal.

Whoever wrote this had been watching me.Not in a creepy way — but consistently. Closely.

And they'd kept it a secret.

I opened the Notes app on my phone again and scrolled down to my "pink letter" list.

I added:

Says "things that didn't shout" → maybe introverted?

Handwriting still neat. Still slanted.

Could be someone from committee events?

Knows I do announcements → maybe listens more than others?

And then, in a smaller bullet:

Feels like they mean it.

Alex caught me scribbling in my planner during study hall and leaned over.

"Tracker log?"

"Don't start."

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if you're secretly writing to me in pink envelopes."

He grinned. "I'm not that romantic. Or neat."

"You're definitely not neat."

"Wouldn't it be wild if it was someone you already talk to every day?"

I blinked. "It's not you."

He raised his hands. "Relax. I'd confess with pizza, not poetry."

I laughed. But it fizzled fast.

Because now I couldn't stop thinking about who I did talk to every day.

Which, to be honest, wasn't many people.

People liked me, sure. Cheered during games. Smiled when I passed by. Laughed at my announcements.

But actual friends? The kind who'd notice how I stand when I'm tired?

That list was short.

And none of them wrote like this.

In the hallway later, I started watching people differently.

Not just the loud ones. The usual suspects.But the quiet ones too.

The girl from lit class who always sat with her legs tucked up.The kid from science who doodled in the margins of his notebook instead of notes.The girl with the lanyard keychain who always left lunch five minutes early.

Any one of them could be the one.

Or none of them.

I realized, horribly, that I didn't even know most of their names.

Not really. Not unless I'd been forced to during a group project or club duty.

Was that the problem?

Had I gone so long not looking back that now I didn't even know who was standing behind me?

After school, I passed the announcement board where the costume party pairings were being pinned.

People were crowding around it. I didn't stop. Not yet.

I wasn't in the mood to pretend I cared about fairy wings or neon wigs.

But as I turned the corner, I saw someone standing alone near the end of the lockers.Back against the wall, hands in her pockets.

Ruby Jane.

I only knew her name because she worked part-time at the restaurant near the station. That, and I'd heard her name read out a few times during club roll calls.

She was quiet. Always around Felix and Becky. Always in hoodies.

She'd brushed past me once in the hallway and mumbled an apology like it was a crime.

Now she was just… standing there. Like she didn't want to go home yet.

For a second, I wondered if it could be her.

Then shook the thought out.

No way. She barely even looked at me.

Besides, this wasn't a fan letter.

It was… too precise.

That night, I read the letters again.

Still no signature. No initials.

Still careful. Still kind.

Still messing with my head.

[End of Chapter 10]

Someone is writing to me. And it's not just about admiration anymore. It's something else. Something harder to name.