The Quiet Girl’s Secret

(Sam's POV)

The court smelled like old rubber and effort.

Sweat clung to my back, dampening my jersey as the whistle echoed for what felt like the fiftieth time this morning.

"Again!" I called.

My teammates groaned in unison, but none of them dared argue.

That's the thing about being captain — people don't question your calls. Even when they want to.

Even when you barely slept, your limbs are half jelly, and your brain is running on two sips of bitter coffee and muscle memory.

We'd started early today.

A prep session before school. Just drills and passing coordination. Tighten the defense line. I'd run it like clockwork — sharp, clean, efficient.

"Nice block, Anya," I said mid-play, catching the rebound and flicking it back toward her. "Keep your eye on the left shoulder — she always turns."

"Noted, Captain," Anya huffed, brushing sweaty bangs from her eyes.

"Don't call me that," I muttered, but she was already smirking.

After regular practice, I stayed back.

Coach had asked me — asked, but it never felt optional — to train the incoming juniors. Get them used to tempo. Teach them how to think like players, not just run drills.

So I did.

Even when my back ached and my knee throbbed from a bad fall last week.

Even when I'd rather be anywhere else.

That's what I do — I show up.

Even when I don't want to.

By the time I walked off court, the gym was mostly empty, the echo of bouncing balls fading into silence.

The juniors had cleared out, most too polite or too scared to say goodbye.

My hoodie stuck to the back of my neck. My fingers hurt from too many passes. I had exactly fifteen minutes to shower, grab my bag, and pretend I cared about my next period class.

It was just another Tuesday.

Another block of time to push through.

After I cleaned up, I walked slowly toward my locker, towel-drying my hair with one hand, scrolling through my missed texts with the other.

Two from Alex.

Lunch?

Or do I have to file a missing girlfriend report again lol

I didn't reply.

He'd forget in five minutes.

I stopped in front of locker 212 and tugged it open, expecting the usual chaos — my planner half-crammed under a sweater, an old protein bar probably expired, earbuds tangled like they were born that way.

Instead, there was a soft pop of something slipping loose from the top shelf.

It landed gently on my math folder.

A pink envelope.

No sticker. No scent. No name.

Just… there.

Sitting perfectly folded like it belonged.

I blinked at it for a full three seconds.

Then looked around.

The hallway was mostly empty — a few freshmen down the hall, someone trying to shake loose a stuck locker.

No one watching.

Still, my stomach knotted.

I picked it up slowly, half-convinced it was a mistake. A prank. Maybe some dumb confession dare. I'd gotten them before — vague notes, inside jokes, one time someone had taped a glitter bomb to a fake "love letter."

But this one was different.

Neat. Quiet.

Intentional.

I opened it.

The paper was smooth, folded in thirds.

No tears. No cross-outs.

Every letter inked with purpose.

The first line read:

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

I read the rest.

Once.

Then again.

Slower.

My heart beat once, hard.

This wasn't a dare.

Or a joke.

Or a "you're hot, call me ;)" scrawl.

This wasn't even flirtation.

It was… something else.

Something softer. Warmer. Scary.

Someone had seen me.

Actually seen me.

Not just the basketball captain.

Not the girl beside Alex.

Not the one with the smooth announcements voice and the carefully careless walk.

No.

They'd seen how I leaned into lockers when I was tired.

How I fiddled with the band on my wrist during announcements.

How I went quiet when the noise got too loud.

They saw through me.

And I hated how that made me feel.

Exposed. Vulnerable. Like a window had been cracked open in a house I'd spent years sealing shut.

I read it again.

Still no name.

No signature.

Just silence.

And yet… it felt more honest than anything anyone had said to me all month.

I folded it again carefully.

Slower this time.

My hands didn't know where to put it.

So I tucked it between my granola bar and my earbuds in my bag.

Not because I wanted to keep it.

But because I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.

Fifth period passed in a blur.

I sat near the window like always, watching the wind snap the flag outside.

Two students were whispering about the upcoming costume party.

Someone else asked me for an extra pencil.

I handed it over without speaking.

I kept my face neutral.

Voice steady.

Heart in full panic.

Who would send that?

Who knew me like that?

Who watched that closely without me noticing?

I didn't have answers.

But I had a letter burning a hole in my bag.

I ran into Alex in the hallway after class.

He grinned at me with a half-eaten sandwich and a bottle of juice tucked under his arm.

"Hey. You're alive."

"Barely," I said.

He squinted at me. "You look… weird."

"Gee, thanks."

"No, like existential crisis weird, or I can say Emotionally Constipated Weird," and he started laughing like a lost man.

"Ok, sorry, my bad now, tell me, did someone confess their love in Spanish again?"

I paused.

Too long.

Alex blinked. "Wait. Did someone actually—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

He smirked. "So yes. Amazing."

"I didn't say that."

"But you didn't not say it."

He started laughing before I could deny it.

And the worst part?

He didn't even ask if I was okay.

Just like always.

I ended up in the library.

Not for a book. Not to study.

Just… to be.

I curled into my usual seat in the far corner near the windows, where the light hit the wall softly and the sound of the air conditioning was steady and low.

I didn't take out the letter.

I didn't need to.

I could still hear it in my head.

It wasn't the words that haunted me.

It was the space between them.

The silence that felt intentional.

The way it echoed things I'd never said out loud — not to anyone.

How did someone know?

By the time I got home, my head was full but my face didn't show it.

That's the trick to being me.

You look fine. So people believe you are.

Later that night, I pulled the letter from my bag and set it on my desk.

My room was dim, lit only by my bedside lamp and the soft blue of my laptop screen saver bouncing across the wall.

I stared at the envelope for a long time.

And then — carefully — I opened it again.

Let the words wrap around me like a whisper I didn't ask for but maybe needed.

I whispered one line aloud.

You're not perfect. But you're real.

It didn't sound dramatic or fake.

It sounded like something I wasn't ready to believe.

But maybe… wanted to.

I slipped the letter under my phone case.

Not to hide it.

But because I wasn't done with it.

Not yet.

[End of Chapter 7 – The First Pink Letter]

I didn't know who they were.

But somehow… they knew me.

And for the first time in a long time… I wanted to know them too.