Two weeks had passed. Spring was finally kicking in — the sun no longer just peeked out from behind the clouds, it actually shone, making students shield their desks with notebooks when the rays hit straight across the room. The trees were finally getting their green back, and the air smelled like... well, like spring. Fresh and warm and kind of sweet.

 In that time, Nick and Marissa had become… friends.

Not the kind of friends who hug when they meet or text memes at 2 a.m., but they had their ritual: after school — the library. Always the same corner table by the window, where the trees looked like quiet spectators of their attempts to tame math. Marissa solved problems, and Nick explained, joked, drew formulas like they were sketches. She bent over her notebook with full focus, and he'd wave his pen around like he was conducting some crazy math symphony.

 And yes, her grades were getting better. Marissa no longer stuffed her tests at the very bottom of her bag. Teachers started looking at her with surprise, sometimes even with praise. She felt a little steadier on her feet.

And Nick… he was glowing. Just the chance to be useful to someone made him ridiculously happy — like, stop-time happy.

But in those two weeks, they hadn’t said a single word about the letter.

Nicholas hadn’t dared. He was embarrassed — by his feelings, by himself back then. By that old, sloppy text; by the openness that looked too much like weakness. By all those feelings that just came pouring out when he didn't want them to.

Marissa didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Didn’t even hint she remembered. And that, weirdly, made him trust her even more.

Still, something stayed hidden inside him. Somewhere between the words, the smiles, those small moments when he wanted to say more — and just couldn’t.

It wasn’t new. When Nick was younger, he’d wanted to tell his mom that it wasn’t his stomach or his knee that hurt, it was his heart. But he never managed. He’d tried to tell a friend he liked a classmate — but the words vanished as soon as he opened his mouth.

He’d always been loved, always supported. But when it came to being honest, Nick froze. He could laugh, joke, help out — but when it was time to say “I’m hurting”, or “I like you”, or “I’m scared” — the words just died. It felt like, if he said it out loud, he’d become fragile, like glass under a hammer.

And now, next to the girl who seemed to see right through him, the silence pressed down again. He wanted to tell her. Everything. But not yet. Not quite.

That familiar quiet settled over everything: the faint crackle of the lamp, the smell of old paper, the rustle of pages, and the distant ticking of the clock. The perfect backdrop for studying— and for a silence that didn’t need to be filled.

 They sat in their usual corner, by the tall window. Outside, the trees were doing their swaying thing - almost like they were trying to wave at Marisa or something. She was staring at her notebook for the third time, the same integral problem in front of her, and it still made no sense.

 “I just… ugh, this is hopeless,” she muttered, throwing her pen onto the desk. “I feel like a complete idiot. My brain’s like jelly. Vitamin-free jelly.”

Nick tilted closer, grinning.

“Hm. Interesting theory. But let me disagree. It’s not jelly—it’s just a tangled formula. Let me try again.”

He leaned over her notebook and began to explain. At first serious, then with more energy, making up ridiculous comparisons and turning calculus into comedy, doodling little triangles with eyes and captions like “Mr. Tangent.”

Marisa couldn’t hold it in—she burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hand.

 “Okay, okay,” she managed between giggles. “Now I’ll never forget this integral.”

 Nick smiled triumphantly—then froze. His cheeks went crimson. He quickly lifted the notebook to hide his face.

 Marisa tilted her head.

 “Uh… what’s wrong?”

 But the answer didn’t come from him.

 On the far side of the hall, near the librarian’s desk, stood a tall dark-haired girl with sharp features. She was talking pretty intensely with Mrs. Martin - the old librarian, absently pushing her hair back like she always did.

 Marisa’s lips curved into the faintest smile. She flicked her gaze sideways at Nick—who now looked like he was trying to merge with the desk.

 It was her. The girl from the letter.

 Marisa didn’t know her personally, but you just couldn't ignore someone like that: the glossy dark hair, the long fingers with a flawless manicure, the everything about her just looked so put-together—even the way she flipped through a reference book looked graceful.

 Marisa sized her up - girl to girl - and she couldn’t deny it: She was stunning. She looked like she belonged on the cover of any fashion magazine. And right then, Marisa felt an invisible gap stretch between them. Internal. Sharp. Unpleasant.

 She turned back to Nick. He sat staring at the floor, cheeks burning.

“Any redder and I could toss him straight into the borscht,” Marisa thought, nearly laughing.

But she didn’t say a word. Instead, she picked up her pen again, focused on the formula, and kept working. Quietly. Gently. Giving him space. And it was better than any word could have been.

Nick wanted to evaporate out of his chair. Dissolve. Disappear. Turn into a drop of water and slip through the crack in the floor. What was wrong with him? He didn’t even know Nila. He’d only ever seen her in the cafeteria. She always sat with her friends, laughing at something, tossing her hair perfectly over her shoulder.

 She was… a picture. An image. An idea. Way out of his league - like, not even in the same universe.

 And yet, the moment he saw her—everything else just... disappeared. Marisa, the formulas, the textbooks—all vanished in a white blur. Only Nila remained. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear - and that was the end.

 Nick melted into the desk.  At least his soul did.

And then—reality smacked him in the back of the head. He remembered where he was. And with whom.

MARISA!!!!!

 She had read the letter. She was the only one who knew about his feelings. And now she was watching him melt into a puddle over a girl he had never even spoken to.

Nick glanced at Marisa. She sat calmly, not asking, not judging, not mocking. Just… being there. And it was so kind, so gentle, that for the first time in two weeks he wanted to tell her everything. Because he didn’t want to be the beetroot boy who blushed himself into oblivion. He wanted to be someone who could actually speak. At least with her.

From the corner of his eye, he watched Marisa pretend nothing had happened. She was bent over her notebook again, brow furrowed in her usual concentration. But Nick knew—she had understood everything. And she gave him space. It helped. And at the same time, it pressed on him harder. He had to say something. He wanted to. Badly.

 In his head, trial runs began:

 Option one: “Listen, that… that girl… she’s the one. The letter was about her” - No. Too blunt.

 Option two: “Would you mind if I confessed that I have a full-blown identity crisis every time she walks into a room?” - Oh God, Nick, what are you even saying?

 Twice he opened his mouth. Twice he shut it again, like they were gates to a world of shame. The third time, he managed a sound. Something between a sigh and a squeak:

“Uhh…”

Marisa lifted her head. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly, as if the letter didn’t exist, as if she hadn’t just witnessed his complete collapse.

Nick looked at her—and the words vanished again. He dropped his head onto his arms, buried his face in the crook of his elbow, and produced a noise that resembled the sigh of a very large, very emotionally exhausted whale.

 “Mhm,” came the muffled reply from the desk.

 Marisa smiled faintly.

“All right,” she said, her voice like a warm blanket. “Then I’m listening.”