I opened the first one.

But before I tell you what it said, here’s what she thought was a good opening line:

“I would be a terrible storyteller. I should’ve warned you.”

Self-awareness. That’s new.

I continued reading,

"Because good storytellers build characters, settings, moods. I apparently did none of that. So now I will try to fix it. So that at least now you can imagine his face.”

Sure.

"He used to have trendy haircuts. The eighth-grade trend was a buzz cut — sides shaved off, top left like a crown of rebellion. Teachers hated it. Called it a bird’s nest. But he wore it anyway. Not always, but enough to annoy authority once a month.

His eyes were that regular dark brown people call black. Common, but… not. Like the kind of common that makes you stare harder, hoping you’re the only one who sees the difference.

He was thin. Tall-ish. Not at-the-back-of-the-line tall, but close. Maybe three boys behind him. His complexion? A burnt shade of autumn. Warm. Sharp. A bit tired.

Pants — pencil cut. Which broke school rules. So he used to sit outside class, removing the stitches, like a tailor with detention. That was his personality. Always in trouble. Always incomplete.

That’s how i noticed him.Once he was Sitting on the corridor floor, pulling threads out of his pants like it was therapy."

Then it looked like she described herself too. 

"I was medium-thin. Leaning more towards thin. And Height - Similar, I used to also stand near the end of the line — usually four or five girls were behind me. Skin tone - Autumn tone too. Hair ribbons — two flats. One red tilak, one white. People thought I was from another state. which i wasn’t. I just liked symmetry, or confusion. Probably both.

Minimalist. Simple. All called me a village girl. I didn’t correct them.

So yeah, now that you have your visual aids, let’s get back to the main part of the letter."

I paused. Thought for a second. 

Suspense, really? Does she think she’s some noir writer hiding identities as if I won’t guess this is my father she’s talking about? The boy I like? Very vintage. Very “grand reveal” energy.

I keep acting like I don’t know them.

But truth is—I already did.

That Report Cards just triggered old memories - Once Grandma showed me that old school album of them. My dad was in it—4th or 5th class. Same eyes, same “I hate combs” energy.

her photo wasn’t there. She joined in 8th—missed the photo in welcome kit.

Still, they had other photos. Group ones. March-first chaos. That forced-smile toothpaste ad vibe.

And yeah, I saw them. Together. Just… as pixels.

Maybe I knew more than I let myself believe.

Maybe I just didn’t want to admit it.

I read on.

“I told you last time I wondered what would happen if I didn’t see him even once in a day. Well, it happened. There were days I didn’t get a single glimpse. Not during morning or even at prayer time not seen him in lunchbreak too, only what left was the walking area from the cycle shed to the main gate which we use while going home— my last window of hope.”

Is it supposed to be Tragic now. Huh

“It was diary period. The last class before we were sent home. I thought he was absent. Or maybe I just missed him. I was busy being dramatic in my head when suddendly he appeared. Like magic. Like I had summoned him with a thought.”

Sure. Because teenage boys regularly respond to psychic distress signals. Are you kidding me?

“Suddenly someone stood at our class door. Asking permission to come in. Said he wanted to borrow a book. The entire class turned. I did too. And there he was. The glimpse I’d been begging the universe for.”

“His eyes didn’t scan the room for his friend. They scanned the girls’ row. Where I sat. A simple glance. Not a movie stare. Just long enough to matter.”

“Then, Another day, after school, when I was alone that day on my way home . He came with only one friend — you remember, the one from my second encounter? Not full gang. Just them.”

“He passed by. I followed, at a distance. Normal day. Then he did the most abnormal thing — he turned back. And smiled. Then turned again. And smiled again.”

“Not a quick, polite smile. A lovesick, movie-hero, dragged-away-by-his-friend kind of smile. I remember thinking: is this a scene from a film I’ve forgotten?”His friend was also confused. Obviously. “Why are you smiling like an idiot?” the friend asked.

Fair question. Even I would’ve asked.

“I panicked. Lowered my head. Walked faster. Took the narrowest path — the single-person strip between the trees and the cycle stand. Didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.”

Isn't this is why teenage logic is full of flaws.You can stare at him all you want, build a whole daydream playlist in your head—

“I still don’t know why I ran. Maybe I was scared of rumors. I had just escaped the new-girl tagging. Didn’t want to be upgraded from ‘newcomer’ to ‘secret lover.’ I liked my slate clean.”

“But truth? Even after five years, I’ve asked myself a thousand times — what if I hadn’t run? What if I had smiled back? Because after that day, he never smiled at me like that again. That was the first and...”

The ink ends there.

Two words follow — barely formed. Like the pen collapsed mid-sentence. Not smudged. Not scratched out. Just... dry.

I closed the letter.

In today’s world of dating apps and hearts-in-DMs, this kind of love feels like it was made with dial-up internet. A glitchy, pixelated, one-glance love. How foolish.

But  what’s worse is,

I believed — and still do — that the ultimate romantic act is not kissing or hugging. It’s this.

That silent, steady gaze. No words. Just watching someone you love as if they’re the last calm thing in the world.

There’s probably a word for it. I don’t know it. But I believe in it.

And after all these years,after reading this letter now I wonder — did she?

Did she feel it too?

And if she did — why the hell is she, just like me.

She is supposed to be the villian of this story right?, but why?

Why, with every new letter she is slowly becoming the main character of my story. And me, i am becoming that foolish immature character who misunderstand the main lead of the story. 

"Really? She was never the villain — just the girl. And I… I was the one who never bothered to read the story right." 

No — this can’t be right. I object, your honour. 

But… who even is the judge here? Because if it’s me, then maybe the verdict was never fair to begin with." 

Huh...