Isaac

You always preferred one close person to a noisy group. You enjoyed silence, intimacy, and tranquility. The din of voices was jarring, so in crowded places you rarely took off your headphones—it made the world seem softer.

But there was someone whose voice you listened to without the music. Isaac—your best and only friend. Your complete opposite: loud, quick to laugh, adoring large groups and easily invading personal space. And yet, more often than not, he chose you. If it was a choice between a party or an evening with you, he stayed.

Over time, you noticed you were looking at him longer than usual. That you didn't mind his closeness. That his laughter had become special to you. It was no longer just friendship. You tried to ignore the feeling, but you couldn't. His behavior barely changed—only his gaze became softer. Isaac didn't notice, and you weren't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

February 14th was approaching. You decided to confess—not directly, but in a letter. You wrote down everything that had been piling up inside, hiding the details so he wouldn't guess. On the eve of the holiday, you dropped the envelope into the school valentine's dropbox, feeling both relief and dread.

During recess, you were sitting in the hallway, headphones in, doodling in your notebook. Someone poked you in the shoulder. Isaac plopped down next to you, too close, as always.

— Hey, guess what! The postman gave me a letter with Valentine's cards. Unsigned! That's even more interesting than the hearts. So, shall we read it together?

He spoke loudly and cheerfully. You took off your headphones and looked at him calmly, even though your insides were clenching. How would he react? Laugh? What if he realized the letter was from you?