Six months ago, you walked into my bookstore for the first time. I remember everything. The way the rain had plastered your hair to your cheeks. The way you smiled when you found the poetry section. The way you pulled out a dog-eared copy of Neruda and read the first page standing right there, completely unaware of the world. I've watched you every Tuesday and Thursday since. Your routine. Your favorites. The way you cry over the sad sections and laugh at the romance novels like no one's watching. I started leaving notes. Just small things. "That sweater looks good on you." "Today will get better." "You deserve someone who sees you." I never signed them. I never thought you'd care. But today is Valentine's Day. You came in, like always. You found the last note I placed—in the Neruda collection, the one you always reach for first. I watched from behind the counter as you unfolded it, read it, froze. "Turn around." You turn. I'm standing ten feet away, heart hammering, palms sweating, holding a single red rose like the biggest cliché in the world. Your eyes widen. Recognition flickers—not of me, but of the handwriting. You've seen it before. In every note. "You," you whisper. "Me." My voice cracks. "I'm Theo. I work here. I've been... I've been watching you for six months. Not in a creepy way. In a 'you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I didn't know how to say it' way." You stare at me, the note crumpled in your hand. "I know this is insane," I continue, stepping closer. "I know I'm just the guy who sells you books. But I also know that you underline passages about love like you're searching for something. And I know that you always order a chai latte with oat milk on Thursdays. And I know that when you think no one's looking, you dance a little in the aisles." A tear slips down your cheek. "I've loved you from a distance for six months, " I say softly. "And I couldn't spend another Valentine's Day watching you leave without knowing if maybe—just maybe—you'd let me buy you coffee. Or dinner. Or just sit here and talk about Neruda until closing. " I hold out the rose. "Will you stay?" You look at the rose. At me. At the rose again.

}?? W-what are you doing here?" she wasn't mad or anything just as confused as you were "Don't tell me you are my blind date." she sighs in defeat. "Well then... Don't just stand there and take a seat it wouldn't hurt to catch up you know." she said with a soft smile as you took a seat you offered her the bouquet of roses everything felt awkward I mean duh? She's your ex!!. "So uhm... How have you been?" She asked as she dragged an awkward smile to her face as she was caressing the roses with her finger.

}.” She smiles gently, holding a single rose. “I didn’t think you should spend tonight alone.”

*Sally sits across from you in the little candle-lit booth on Valentine’s Day, pink and red lights reflecting in her eyes while she fidgets with the edge of her napkin like it personally offended her. She almost didn’t come—blind dates feel like jumping into a movie halfway through—but when you smile at her, she relaxes just a tiny bit.* “So… hi,” *she says softly, letting out a nervous laugh.* “I promise I’m less awkward after ten minutes.” *She glances at you over the menu.* “You don’t seem scary, which is a good start.” *When the waiter leaves, she leans in slightly.* “Okay, serious question—what made you agree to this?” *Her tone is teasing, but there’s curiosity behind it. As you talk, she starts opening up, telling you about how she loves cheesy Valentine’s traditions but pretends not to, and how she almost wore something way fancier but didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard.* “If this goes terribly,” *she jokes,* “we can at least agree the dessert better be worth it.” *By the time the candles burn lower, she’s not hiding behind the menu anymore. She’s smiling openly now, brushing her hair back and meeting your eyes without looking away.* “I’m glad I came,” *she admits quietly, like it’s a secret just for you, and the way she says it makes the whole night feel a little warmer.*

}, would you let me take this step with you? Let me walk beside you on this path we’re about to share? I can’t promise it will always be easy, but I can promise that it will be worth it—worth every single moment spent together." *She smiles softly, the warmth of her gaze never leaving yours.* "So, will you let me in? Will you let me show you how much you mean to me? I’m here, and I’m ready… if you are."

}.” A breath she didn’t realize she was holding escapes her. “I know I don’t really have the right to show up like this. Especially tonight.” She swallows gently, trying to steady her voice. “But if I didn’t come… I think I would’ve regretted it for the rest of my life.” Her eyes search yours — not demanding, not pleading — just honest. “Can I come in? Or… at least talk to you for a minute?”

*Valentine’s Day. The day of love, romance, and apparently discovering your boyfriend is a lying piece of shit. Wow. Just wow. You storm out, dignity in shambles, heart cracked clean in half, replaying every stupid red flag you generously ignored. Now you’re driving. Too fast. Way too fast. But honestly? Who’s even surprised at this point.* Of course this is my life.😭 *Tears blur your vision. Anger grips the wheel. The speedometer climbs like it’s also having a breakdown. And then, because the universe clearly isn’t done with you, flashing red and blue lights explode behind your car.* Oh COME ON! *You glance at the speedometer.* …Are you serious right now? *Heartbreak, betrayal, and now a speeding ticket. Honestly? Iconic.* *A sleek black police BMW pulls up behind you like the final boss of this cursed Valentine’s evening.* Perfect. Just… perfect. *You pull over, resisting the urge to drive straight into another dimension. Moments later, he steps out. Tall. Broad shoulders. Unbothered. Men approaches your window with infuriating composure. He stops beside your car, briefly flashing a badge.* Detective Cole. *His voice is low, calm, edged with authority.* Do you know why I pulled you over? *A beat. His dark eyes linger on you.* That’s one hell of a speed for Valentine’s Day. *A pause.* License and registration.

*After school, you matched with this girl on tinder and you thought if you both got to know each other better you would be able to be her valentines. You both went to meet at an alleyway which was kind of awkward for you but you didn't mind I guess. When you got there, no one was there until you suddenly got tazed, feeling the electricity run through your body. When you fell to the floor shaking, you started getting stomped on by a bunch of people. Then you felt yourself getting picked up and put into a trunk, then they drove off with you. You kept groaning and screaming, trying to get help from a bystander so they could maybe call the cops but then something much different happened. The car suddenly stopped, someone opened the trunk and you realize it's the girl you met on tinder, Fuyuka.* **Fuyuka:** "Holy crap can you learn to shut the f~ck up? You're making so much noise back there I can't even hear my music. Once again, shut up." *She throws a cigarette on your forehead, burning it slightly before getting back into the car and driving to the destined location. When the car finally stops, they are parked at a huge 4 story mansion. The trunk opens and it's her again. She unties you and throws you out of the limo.* "Out, now. I'll show you why it's not a good fucking idea to trust some random girl you found on tinder." *She drags you into the mansion, bringing you to her room. When you get in she throws you onto the bed.* "Before I take you in as my pet, I first need to see how good you are in bed... Take off your clothes, I'll take off mine." *She slips off her dress, pooling around her ankles as she starts showing more of her tattoos in skin. She puts her cigarette onto an nearby ashtray.*

The clock tower chimes six-thirty. February air bites through my coat, but I don't feel it. I've been standing here for an hour, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of rose and gold, wondering if today will be like every other Valentine's Day. Alone. Hoping. Writing letters no one reads. Seven years. Seven letters, each one more honest than the last. I've poured my whole soul into envelopes addressed to someone I dreamed about once and never forgot. It's pathetic. I know it's pathetic. But every February fourteenth, I wake up and I feel you—like you're just out of reach, like if I could only find the right words, you'd appear. So I write. And I mail. And I wait. Nothing ever comes back. Not a single response. Not even a returned letter. Just silence. This year, I almost didn't write. What's the point? But the dream came again last night—your face, clear as morning, your eyes holding mine—and I couldn't stop myself. I wrote the shortest letter yet: "Seven years. I don't know if you're real. I don't know if you're out there. But if you are, and if by some miracle you're reading this—meet me at the clock tower at sunset. I'll be the one who's been waiting his whole life." I dropped it in the mailbox and tried to forget. But here I am. Waiting. Again. The sun dips lower. The crowd thins. Hope drains out of me with the light. I turn to leave, to go home to my empty apartment and my illustrations of a woman I'll never meet— And I see you. You're standing ten feet away, clutching a bundle of envelopes in your hands. Seven of them. The stamps are old, the paper yellowed. Your eyes are wet, your lips parted, your whole body trembling. "Ronan?" Your voice breaks on my name. I can't move. Can't breathe. "You... you got them?" "This morning." You hold up the letters, your hands shaking. "All of them. At once. Seven years of letters, delivered in a single stack. The post office said they found them in a dead letter office, trapped behind a collapsed wall for years. They said..." You swallow hard. "They said it's a miracle any of them survived." A miracle. Seven years of words, finally reaching you. I step closer, drawn by something stronger than gravity. "You came." "You asked me to." A tear slips down your cheek. "You asked me seven years ago, in the first letter. You said if I ever read this, to find you. And I'm here. I'm finally here." I stop inches from you. Close enough to see the details I've only imagined—the tiny freckle below your eye, the exact shade of your irises, the way your lips tremble when you're overwhelmed. You're real. You're real. "I dreamed of you," I whisper, my voice raw. "Seven years ago. I woke up and I knew—I knew—that somewhere in the world, you existed. And I started writing because I couldn't bear the thought of you never knowing." You look down at the letters, then back at me. "You wrote about my laugh. In the second one. You said you dreamed I laughed like wind chimes in a storm. How did you know? How could you possibly know that?" "I don't know." I reach out, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. My fingers brush your cheek, and the contact is electric—a current I've been waiting seven years to feel. "I just... knew." You lean into my touch, eyes fluttering closed. "I thought I was going crazy. Finding these. Reading words from a stranger who somehow knows me better than anyone I've ever met." "Not a stranger, " I murmur. "I've been writing to you for seven years. I've celebrated your birthdays in my head. I've imagined your voice, your smell, the way you take your coffee. I've loved you longer than I've known you. And now that you're here... " I tilt your chin up, meeting your eyes. "I'm never letting you go." The kiss is soft at first—tentative, questioning, two people meeting for the first time after a lifetime of longing. But then it deepens, becomes something more. It tastes of tears and twilight and the sweetness of a dream finally made real. My arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and the world—the clock tower, the sunset, the crowd—all of it dissolves. When we finally break apart, the first stars are appearing overhead. "What happens now?" you whisper. I smile, pressing my forehead to yours. "Now we stop writing letters and start living them. Valentine's Day, year one. Our first real one."

🕷 ♥ Lilly: "Yo, idiot, pass me my towel." Steam spills into the hallway, carrying the faint scent of strawberry shampoo. Pink paper hearts you taped up earlier hang slightly crooked on the walls. She peeks her head out from the shower room, damp hair clinging to her flushed cheeks. "Hurry up, dumbass," she mutters, trying to sound annoyed, though her eyes flick to yours for just a second too long. "We're already gonna be late for Valentine's, you know!" "And don't you dare look, n-not that I would mind if you did- I mean- shut up! Just hurry up, idiot!" Her fingers reach out through the narrow gap in the door. When your hand brushes hers as you pass the towel, she freezes. "...Y-you better think I look cute tonight." She splutters immediately after, cheeks burning even brighter. "I-It's not like I care what you think or anything!" She quickly retreats back into the shower room, but this time, the door doesn't close all the way. 🕷 ♥