The Quiet Girl’s Secret

(Sam's POV )

I wasn't even supposed to be in that class.

It was one of those last-minute switches. The announcements team had to cover the Tuesday study block since one of the student mentors bailed. Coach volunteered me before I could blink. Typical.

So there I was — half-tired, slightly annoyed, and carrying a headache that had been pulsing since 8 a.m. I didn't even get my usual second coffee.

"Sam, be an angel and make sure the juniors stay quiet in the back," Mr. Bennett said, flashing that smile teachers use when they're asking for favors they know you can't say no to.

I gave a tight nod.

I didn't want to be here.

I didn't want to be anywhere lately.

Except maybe wherever that envelope had come from.

The library was its usual sleepy self. Dim afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, bouncing off rows of half-awake students pretending to be focused.

Some kids whispered over a costume party checklist.

Others doodled spirals on debate outlines.

I weaved between tables, trying to look mildly responsible while my brain floated somewhere else.

I hadn't looked at the letter since yesterday.

Didn't mean it wasn't replaying in my head line by line.

"Sam!"

I turned.

Two freshman boys were waving me over with grins way too eager to be normal.

"Can you settle something for us?" the one in the blue hoodie asked.

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not a referee."

"No, no—just… If you had to be one of the Greek gods, which would you pick?"

I blinked.

They both leaned forward like it was a real, life-altering question.

"I don't know. Athena?"

They fist-bumped.

"I told you she'd pick brains over power," Blue Hoodie said.

The other one scowled. "You just asked her because she's tall."

"Shut up, you picked Poseidon just because you can't swim."

I let them bicker. Walked away before they roped me into some mythological tier list.

Halfway through the room, Mrs. Hall — the speech and drama teacher — flagged me down.

"Sam, sweetie, we're short one participant for next week's inter-school civic awareness panel. Can you take the spot?"

"I have practice that afternoon."

"You're so well-spoken. I think you'd make a great impression."

I didn't answer right away. My brain was still stuck on the words "You carry yourself like you don't owe the world anything."

If only they knew how many times I said yes just to keep people happy.

"Sure," I said.

She patted my arm like I'd just agreed to save the school.

On the way past the history section, I saw two sophomores whispering — one girl on the edge of tears.

The other one held her wrist, saying something low and frantic.

I didn't mean to intervene.

But my feet turned before I made a decision.

"Everything okay?" I asked, voice level.

They froze.

The crying girl looked up, cheeks flushed, mascara smudged.

"Just… had a panic thing," she mumbled.

Her friend looked ready to bolt.

"Do you want to step out for air?" I offered gently.

She nodded.

I didn't fix anything.

But I stood with her outside the library until her breathing evened out.

Sometimes leadership wasn't speeches or trophies.

Sometimes it was just showing up.

Even when you didn't want to.

When I finally circled back inside, I took the long way behind the stacks — my version of a sigh.

That's when it happened.

I was halfway past the art and design cluster when my eyes caught something — not someone. Something.

A notebook.

Open. Slanted slightly toward the aisle.

The page was filled with handwriting.

Neat.

Right-leaning.

Soft loops on the y.

A gentle curve to the r.

The same upward sweep of the s I'd stared at a dozen times the night before.

My heartbeat kicked.

It couldn't be.

It probably wasn't.

But something about the handwriting made my stomach twist.

Not just because it was familiar.

Because it felt… intentional.

Like the writer had something to say and hadn't quite figured out how to say it out loud.

I didn't move for a second.

Didn't even blink.

Then — slowly — I lifted my eyes from the notebook.

And there she was.

Ruby Jane.

Sitting right there. Head bent low. Her hand rested near the notebook like she was protecting it, even in stillness.

She wasn't writing.

Just… staring at the page. Zoned out. Mouth slightly parted like she'd forgotten to breathe.

Her hair half-covered her face. Her hoodie sleeves tugged over her palms. One foot gently tapping like she was keeping time with something only she could hear.

She looked… sad.

Not in a dramatic way. In a way that made my chest go quiet.

Like she'd just read her own thoughts and didn't like what they said.

I blinked and kept walking.

Fast.

Didn't stop until I reached the nonfiction shelf on the far end of the room — where no one went, where I could sit beside the heater and pretend I wasn't unraveling.

What the hell was that?

Okay.

Think.

Break it down.

Was it definitely the same handwriting?

Maybe not. A lot of people write neat. A lot of people write soft. Maybe I was overanalyzing.

But…

Was it coincidence?

Could be.

Was I overreacting?

Very possible.

But was it her?

I hated how fast my brain said: I hope so.

Ruby wasn't loud.

She wasn't fake-nice like the others in clubs or councils.

She was quiet. Steady. Kept to herself. Hung out with Felix and Becky — the two friends I always found lowkey hilarious from a distance.

She was just… there.

But now I couldn't unsee the way her hand hovered over that page like she'd left part of herself behind in the ink.

And maybe I had walked past her for two years without really seeing her.

But now?

Now I couldn't stop.

Back home, I pulled the letter out again.

The original one.

I re-read the slant of every sentence. The care in every margin. The curve of the "you."

I imagined her writing it.

Imagined her holding her breath as she folded it. As she dropped it in my locker.

Did her fingers shake?

Did her heart race?

Why me?

I opened the Notes app.

Started a new list.

POSSIBLES:

Ruby Jane (?)

– handwriting match (??? tentative)

– quiet

– hangs with Felix + Becky

– never speaks to me

– passes by locker hallway after 3rd period

– today: writing alone in library, same letter tilt/slant??

– looked sad — like the words hurt

– unknown: motive, orientation, feelings, intent

I stared at her name.

Typed out in black and white like it meant nothing.

But it did.

It meant too much.

Because the moment I wrote it, the letter became real.

And that scared the hell out of me.

I closed the app and shoved the phone under my pillow.

Didn't want to see it again.

Not because I didn't want it to be her.

But because…

I did.

And that terrified me.

If it was her…

Then all of this was real.

It wasn't just admiration. It wasn't anonymous softness folded into a locker like a secret.

It was a person.

A girl I'd passed in hallways.

A girl who maybe — maybe — had been holding my name in her chest this whole time like a song she wasn't allowed to sing.

I turned off the lights.

Lay in bed.

Eyes open.

And thought about her fingers hovering over that notebook like they were scared to write too much too fast.

[End of Chapter 11 – The Notebook Moment]

The letters felt weightless. Until suddenly, they didn't.

Because maybe… I finally saw the hand that wrote them.