You mean hydriodic acid?

This is what I get for trying to be smart.

Anyway, I got it. And I laughed. I kind of wished I hadn’t.

Oh my god, y e s. T.S. Eliot. I swear if I read the ‘not with a bang, but with a whimper’ thing one more time there will be murder. The worst part is, most people don’t even know where it comes from, the quote.

I don’t.

By the way, it’s from The Hollow Men.

Ponyboy? The Outsiders? I’ve always wanted to read that one. Hey, I have an idea: I’ll read it, you read whatever I put in your locker. I’m sure you’ll like it. I'll get one of my favorite books, too, so it’s not like you’ll break my cold, dead heart if you don’t read it or anything.

P.S. I don’t read poetry.

P.P.S. Fine, maybe a few things. Occasionally.

P.P.P.S. I'm troubled.

—A nobody

At the very bottom part of the scrap of paper is a smaller, briefer message.

You’re not stupid. And you hate me.

Last time I checked, you don’t grin and get all lightheaded when reading a letter from someone you hate. In fact, I’m practically skipping all the way to math. Once inside, I find a certain somebody that had been absent yesterday: a mousy brunette with eyes too big for her face and a nose so red I’m afraid people will break into singing Christmas songs. I can safely infer she has a cold.

“Millie!” I greet, grinning and waving.

Unsurprised by this, she nods. I sit next to her, even if gravity isn’t working that well on me today. Milla, on her part, keeps blowing her nose and looking like gravity decided to take revenge on her instead. I notice the girl from yesterday at the front of the room, casually laughing and talking to her crowd.

Which reminds me: I should take special care of my back today. Thus, I glance around the room, searching for that guy with both a ridiculously cute face and tendency to swear every three words.

He’s absent.

For a few seconds, anyway.

Of course, of course Isaac storms into the classroom just as I’m about to relax. Neither the girl nor he seem to bother acknowledging each other’s presence, and he ends up sitting the farthest away he can from her behind Millie.

“Damn,” she growls.

“Glad to know my presence is welcomed,” says Isaac. I don’t realize I’m staring again until he scowls at me, but instead of snapping ‘what?’ he merely looks away.

“Hi,” I greet stupidly.

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Okay.”

Milla snorts. It sounds oddly gross with her snotty nose and everything, but instead of growing ashamed she finds this hilarious and keeps laughing while muffling the sound with a Kleenex I pray to the heavens is clean.

Classtime starts. Since it’s physics, I don’t bother trying to pay attention and instead brainstorm just how to reply to the letter writer’s message. Without making a complete fool of myself again, I mean. He didn’t even bother replying to my ‘let’s be friends’ part, which kind of hurts, but it’s not like he comes across as the sort to trust others easily.

Absentmindedly, I take out the letter. Just to reread.

“What kind of loser reads poetry?” mumbles a voice behind me. Naturally, I squeak and suddenly crumple the letter, scowling at Isaac, who seems quite amused after reading the letter for Jesus knows how long behind my back. When did he change seats? I’m not as mad about this as because of him calling the writer a loser.

“What do you care?” I snap, careful not to speak above a whisper lest I draw attention.

“Also, who even knows where the 'bang with a whimper' thing comes from? What a nerd."

“Go away.”

“That's one hell of an explanation. I appreciate it."

“Fuck off,” hisses Milla. Given she knows that phrase alone is more of an empty threat, she adds, “Or I wipe my snot on your pretty face.”

Isaac throws her a look I can't decipher before turning back to me. "So that's what you were doing yesterday? Reading that shit?"

I swear—

“Anyway. Go to the lockers after school."

“Don’t go to the lockers after school,” Milla warns me the moment lunchtime begins. As usual, we head to the art room. My train of thought mostly revolves around how to reply to the writer’s message. “And anyway,” goes on Milla, “What’s up with the letter? Is it a love confession or something?”

By now, we’ve reached the art room. A few people are scattered around, idly working on canvases or sculptures or scribbles in their notebooks. Milla belongs to the first category, and so she readies her paints and space and soon enough begins to work. To her, the abomination drawn on the canvas is the ultimate expression of human fear. To me, it looks like something only Cthulhu would love.

“More like,” I admit, taking trays of food out my backpack, “A confession and that’s it.”

“Is the guy your father?”

“I really hope not.”

Milla snorts. The thing about her is, she may be mousy, but not nosy. She can tell I’m not going to reveal anything else, and so she lets me be. In fact, I begin writing a reply right beside her and her eyes don’t once dart away from her stuff. Mine don’t, either, but that’s mostly because Milla’s paintings give me nightmares.

You laughed, so that’s something.

I nibble on the pen for a while.

I knew it was The Hollow Men.

A(nother) white lie won’t hurt. Besides, it’s not like he’ll find out.

I’m definitely reading that book. Whichever it is. Don’t worry. I won’t break your cold, dead heart. If anything, I’ll break the ice.

You ignored me last time, but I really mean it when I said I wanted to be your friend. You put yourself down all the time, but really, someone recommending good books and laughing at horrible jokes can’t be that bad. Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself. I won’t judge.

Don’t worry. I’m hard on myself, too. Sometimes I wish I was braver.

P.S. Sorry I’m so cheesy.

P.P.S. Please don’t stop replying.

P.P.P.S. Please, please don’t stop replying.

—I don’t know what to put here anymore

Without warning, I suddenly stand up, crumple the letter into a ball and stomp to the waste bin. Once there, I pause, and thus I decide to storm out the door instead.

Milla calls out, "Good luck!"

And I’ll need it. It takes me the remainder lunch break to decide if I should put the letter in there or not. Once the bell rings, I end up hastily placing the letter, slamming the door of my stupidly-easy-to-break-through locker and am about to flee back to class when I notice Isaac lingering around.

Jesus.

He’s watching my every move. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s being wary. I run to the side, then the other, then jump and crawl on the ground. He doesn’t stop staring, but his lips curl upward. “Is that some new sort of loser ritual?” he asks.

“Whatcha looking at?” I reply.

“I’m waiting for you to leave.”

“Ah. I can see that, but…” I trail off for a moment just to make sure we’re far enough from each other in case I have to run, “...why?”

Isaac tilts his head to one side, then the other, as though waging multiple answers in his head. Finally, as casually as someone else would admit waiting for someone he informs, “I’m gonna masturbate. Wanna see?”

So I flee.

While I seriously doubt he’s going to do that in the middle of the hallway, it doesn’t dawn on me that he may have watched me placing the letter until I’m back in the class. So of course, I haste back to the lockers. Throughout all middle school and until the beginning of my sophomore year, I was in the track team. This is the only reason why I can thrash around like an idiot without getting tired. For a while, anyway.

Once I catch sight of Isaac, I realize my stupid locker is open, and he’s reading the damn letter.

“TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF THERE!” I holler.

He’s so startled he drops the letter. “I wasn’t seriously—” but before he can finish, I’m lunging at the letter in an obviously desperate attempt to get it first. He’s quick to notice and snatches it before I can, but I’m not letting this idiot make fun of the writer again. Thus, I take hold of it and begin to pull. Better to tear it than share it.

“Don’t,” he warns.

"You don't,” I retort without thinking.

All of a sudden, he lets it go. And he smirks. "Wow," he remarks, "so you really are that stupid."

I crumple the letter into a ball and hold it between both hands.

“You hate me, see? I told you. And I told you you'd never guess. From what I can see, though, I don't think you want me to keep the letter thing up, so I won't. No book, either."

I toss the ball at his face. He flinches, but doesn’t reiterate. “Was…” I gulp, “Was it a game or something? A bet? I don’t know. I just… I’m sorry for hitting your face. I know you’re not sorry for what you did, though.”

“What did I do?”

“The whole letter thing.”

“No. Not sorry.”

“Of course,” I run a hand down my face, “Of fucking course.”

The worst thing is, it’s really hard for me to get mad. When I do, I feel like an idiot. Isaac keeps that icy, mildly mocking smile on his face, which makes me squeeze my eyes shut and wonder just what he had been thinking when he wrote all of that. if he even wrote it. Maybe he had someone else do it and kept laughing all throughout it.

“This is why I wanted to keep it anonymous,” he whispers.

I glance at him, just to check if his expression changed as much as his voice. it hasn’t.

Isaac shrugs. “It was fun while it lasted, I guess.”

But I know better.

The thing is, honesty does not allow any type of shield. Sometimes, when you lie for too long, you forget how to cover those little slip-ups. For a moment, just one, I catch a glimpse of the person who wrote those letters. Not Isaac. Someone else. From somewhere else.

I’m a stupid one.

He must expect me to land a blow or something, because the second I move, he tenses up visibly. However, I aim for the letter, take it, and hand it to him. Isaac raises his eyebrows.

“You…” I frown, “You’re right. I’m an idiot. You’re an ass. You’re a bad person. A horrible one, and I want to break your nose, but I won’t because you’ll probably break mine instead. But I was honest when I said I wanted a reply.”

He looks at the letter, but doesn’t take it.

“And—” I clear my throat, “I don’t want you to reply, but the person who wrote those letters. I like that person. I really do.”

Isaac takes the letter. I'm afraid he's going to burst out laughing or something, but he just smiles at me. Out of all things he could possibly say, he mumbles, "What a cheesy piece of shit."

A moment later he does, in fact, walk away. As he does, he smoothes down the letter.