October 12, 1977

The letter smelled faintly like strawberry perfume. The kind you bought cheaply at the corner store, the kind that lingered too long on your clothes. I held it between my fingers, my name written in careful loops across the front, like she’d practiced it a dozen times before putting pen to paper.

I should’ve felt something. Excitement, maybe. Flattery. Anything.

But all I felt was the weight of it.

The courtyard behind the gym was empty except for me. The air was sharp with that fall bite, the trees shedding red leaves in slow spirals that stuck to the damp concrete. I unfolded the paper.

Her handwriting was neat, a little slanted. She said she didn’t really know me, but she liked me anyway. She said I looked cool when I played basketball, that I was athletic, that I seemed different than the other boys. She wanted to know if maybe… I wanted to be her boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

The word sat on the page like it belonged to someone else’s life. Not mine.

I read it twice. Three times. Each time, it made me feel smaller. Like she’d written to the wrong person by mistake, like she thought she’d seen me but hadn’t at all.

Because she hadn’t seen the bruises I kept hidden under long sleeves. She hadn’t seen the way my smile cracked whenever I walked back through my front door at night. She hadn’t seen how much of me belonged to someone else already.

She hadn’t seen Noah.

I folded the letter back up, tighter this time, pressing the edges until the paper nearly tore. My chest ached. Not because of her, but because for one stupid second I thought about what it would be like to say yes. To let myself be the kind of boy she thought I was.

I could almost see it—walking beside her down the hallway, carrying her books, smiling at the right jokes, holding her hand when no one was watching. I could be that boy. I knew how. I’d seen it in movies, in the way other guys acted, like it was so simple. Like it was something I was supposed to want.

And maybe it would’ve been easier. Easier to just nod, easier to play along, easier to let her think I was cool instead of broken.

But the thought of it made me sick.

Because if I said yes to her, I’d be saying no to myself. To the part of me that came alive when Noah laughed, or when he bumped his shoulder against mine like we were the only two people in the world who mattered.

Still…

I hated the idea of her waiting for me, thinking I’d smile when I saw her words. I hated imagining the way her stomach must’ve flipped when she wrote “boyfriend,” how much courage it took to slip this letter into my hands. She didn’t deserve to be ignored. She didn’t deserve for me to be cruel.

But she didn’t deserve a lie either.

I stared down at the paper, the words blurring until they were just black lines and loops. My hands shook, torn between folding it back into my pocket and throwing it away for good. If I kept it, it’d be like carrying a secret I couldn’t explain. If I gave it back, I’d see the look on her face when she realized.

And if I said yes—

No. I couldn’t. Not when my heart already belonged somewhere else.

I pressed the letter flat against my knee, holding it there like it might anchor me. But all it did was burn.

Because I knew what she wanted. And I knew I couldn’t give it to her.

Not when every thought, every piece of me, already tilted toward Noah.

I shoved the letter into the metal trash can by the fence, but I didn’t strike the match right away. I just stood there, staring down at the folded paper sitting crooked in the bottom. Like it was looking back at me. Like it was waiting.

My hands shook when I pulled out the matchbox I’d lifted from the garage that morning. I turned it over in my palms, over and over, until the cardboard was warm from the heat of my skin.

What if I kept it? What if I said yes, just to see what it felt like to be wanted out loud instead of in secret? To pretend, even for a little while, that I could fit into the world the way people thought I should?

But pretending always cracks. I knew that better than anyone.

I slid one match free. Held it between my fingers. My throat was dry. The paper sat so still, and for a second, I hated how much hope she must’ve poured into those lines. I hated that I couldn’t return it. I hated that she thought she saw me when she didn’t see me at all.

I struck the match. The flame flared, small and hungry, and for a heartbeat, I almost blew it out. My grip faltered. My chest ached with the weight of what I was about to do.

But then I lowered it.

The fire kissed the corner of the letter and caught fast. The paper curled in on itself, ink bleeding into black ash, perfume twisting into something sour as it burned. I watched it disappear, bit by bit, until the words were nothing but smoke in the air.

I didn’t look away. Not until it was gone completely. Not until there wasn’t even a scrap left to prove it ever existed.

Because the truth was simple.

She didn’t matter. Not like Noah.

No one mattered like Noah.

When the fire died out, I kicked the trash can, hard, until the echo rang through the empty yard. Then I grabbed my bag and started running, sneakers slapping against pavement, heart hammering with something I couldn’t name.

I felt bad—yeah. For leaving her waiting. For not answering her smile, not giving her the version of me she wanted. But the truth was, my whole world tilted toward someone else.

It always had.

The smell of smoke still clung to my fingers when I finally walked home from the gym. My bag felt heavier than usual, straps digging into my shoulder, like I was carrying more than just books.

By the time I reached Noah’s street, the sun was sinking low, throwing long shadows across the lawns. His porch light wasn’t on yet, but he was there—sitting on the steps with a notebook balanced across his knees, his head bent low, his hand moving quick like the words couldn’t wait.

I slowed without meaning to, sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk. He didn’t notice me right away. He was too focused, lips pursed, brows furrowed, writing like his whole chest depended on it.

I climbed the first porch step, grinning just enough to hide the way my pulse jumped.

“What are you doing?” I asked, leaning over to peek at the page. “Writing a love letter to me?”

Noah startled, snapping the notebook shut so fast the pen clattered against the wood.

“I—no,” he said too quickly, his cheeks pink in the fading light. “It’s just—homework.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, drawing the words out. “Homework that makes you look like you’re blushing?”

He shoved my shoulder, but there was no real force behind it. “Shut up.”

I laughed, dropping my bag on the step and plopping down beside him. The air was cool, sharp with the first hints of evening. For a second, the world felt easy again. Like nothing burned that afternoon. Like it was just us, and maybe that was enough.

I leaned back on my elbows, watching him tap his pen against the notebook like he was trying not to smile.

“Whatever it is,” I said, “I hope it’s about me.”

And maybe… just maybe… it was.