The Quiet Girl’s Secret

(Ruby's POV)

It was the kind of night where everything felt louder than it should've.

The fan in my room creaked overhead like it had something to say.The wall clock ticked with mechanical confidence — steady, cruel, precise.And downstairs, I could hear the restaurant's metal shutters being pulled shut, one after the other — long, screeching groans that echoed through my ribs like warning bells.

My room was dimly lit, the corner lamp buzzing softly like a failing secret.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, my school bag tossed aside, a notebook open in front of me.

Not my science notes. Not my to-do list. Not my homework.

Just a blank page.

And a heart that wouldn't shut up.

That day had dragged.

Every class blurred into the next. Every hallway became an obstacle course I had to maneuver just to avoid seeing Sam and Alex together.

I failed, obviously.

I saw them in third period English, whispering behind their shared copy of the textbook.

I saw them in the courtyard, laughing at something — maybe nothing — maybe just breathing the same air and calling it companionship.

Her hand brushed against his sleeve like it didn't mean anything.

But I saw it. My stomach clenched like it did.

It wasn't jealousy, exactly.

It was… distance.

The kind of ache you get when you realize how far away something actually is.And how ridiculous you've been for even imagining it could be different.

Sam Walker didn't know my name.

She'd never looked at me — really looked.

And still, she lived in my head like a permanent tenant, rearranging my thoughts, my heartbeat, my sleep.

"Ruby," Becky had said yesterday, after catching me zoning out again in the middle of lunch. "You can't keep living in your head."

I wanted to argue.But she was right.

My head had become a quiet, padded room. Safe. Comfortable. Echo-filled.

But even there… it was getting lonely.

Even my daydreams were starting to feel hollow.

I had no one to say this to.

Not really.

I had Becky and Felix — and God, I loved them. But this?

This wasn't something I could hand over in a conversation.

It was too soft. Too messy. Too vulnerable.

So I picked up a pen.

I don't know why I started writing.Maybe I needed to confess something without actually being heard.Maybe I needed a release valve before everything inside me exploded.

The first sentence came out slow.Scratchy. Hesitant. Like it had to fight its way past my ribs.

Hi. I don't know if you'll ever read this.And maybe that's a good thing.But I see you. Every day.

I stopped. Let the ink settle.

My hand trembled a little — not with fear, but with too much.

I kept going.

Not just the version everyone else sees — the queen, the athlete, the girl who walks like she doesn't need permission to take space.I see the way you lean into the lockers when you're tired.The way you fiddle with the band on your wrist during announcements.The way you go quiet when people talk too much around you.

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

The words flowed faster after that.

And still — none of them felt like enough.

How do you condense obsession into a paragraph?

How do you explain the feeling of watching someone breathe and feeling like you're the one gasping?

I paused again.

Stared at the way my handwriting wobbled near the edges.How raw the page looked — like it had bled something it shouldn't have.

I wasn't writing a love letter.

It wasn't love.

Not yet.

But it was a beginning.

Of something.

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

I wish I could say this out loud.But if I did… I think I'd fall apart.

I didn't sign it.

No name. No initials. Just silence.

Just the heavy, folded weight of a secret.

It sat on my desk for ten whole minutes while I stared at it.

I could still back out.

I could rip it in half. Burn it. Shove it between math worksheets and call it a failed moment of weakness.

But instead…

I tucked it into a soft pink envelope — one I'd bought on a whim months ago, thinking I might use it to send Becky a thank-you note for covering my shift at the stall.

Funny how things change.

The next morning, I woke up with a headache and nerves clawing through my stomach.

I didn't say much to Becky or Felix on the walk to school.

They noticed, of course.

"You okay?" Becky asked, eyes gentle.

I nodded.

She didn't push.

Maybe she already knew.

I kept the envelope tucked into my notebook all morning.

It sat there like a firecracker in my bag.

And every time I reached for a pen or flipped a page, I felt it shift — like a heartbeat I wasn't ready to acknowledge.

After third period, I moved slower than usual.Partly to avoid the rush.Mostly because I wasn't sure I'd be able to go through with it.

Sam's locker was number 212.

Two rows past the chem lab. Near the window with the chipped sill and the half-dead potted plant someone kept forgetting to water.

I knew that hallway like a map.

When I reached it, there were only a few students around.

I kept my head down.Pretended to dig through my bag.Heart racing.

One move.

Just one.

Slip the paper through the thin slit in the locker door.

Easy.

But my fingers felt numb.

I almost dropped it.

Almost ran.

But then I did it.

Quick. Quiet. Clean.

The envelope slid inside like a breath held too long.

And then I walked away.

Fast.

Didn't breathe until I turned the corner.

I don't remember the rest of my classes.

The world felt blurry.Like I was watching everything through a pane of glass smudged with fingerprints.

At lunch, Becky leaned in.

"Did you do it?"

I didn't speak.But my face gave me away.

Her expression softened. "Okay. That's a start."

Felix raised an eyebrow. "Oh no. You actually did it."

I groaned and covered my face with both hands. "I'm going to pass out."

"You're going to be fine," Becky said gently. "You were honest. That counts."

But did it?

What if she didn't read it?

What if she laughed?

What if she recognized my handwriting?What if she thought it was creepy?

I thought about all the ways this could go wrong.All the ways I could break under the weight of one tiny letter.

But then I thought:

What if she did read it?

And for one second… she felt seen.

That thought was scarier.And more powerful than anything else.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers.

The fan clicked again.

My phone buzzed once. I didn't check it.

I thought about her eyes.

Her laugh.

The way she leaned against lockers when she was tired.

The fact that maybe — maybe — somewhere in her bag was a folded piece of my heart.

And even if it meant nothing…

Even if it got tossed out…

At least, for once, the ache inside me had a shape.

A sentence.

A start.

[End of Chapter 6 – Write It, Don't Say It]

I didn't sign it. I didn't say her name.But somehow… it still felt like the most honest thing I've ever done.