Chapter 3 COURAGE IN INK
Alex
The blank paper stared back at him like a dare.
Alex sat at his desk, his roommate asleep across the room, and tried to figure out how to put three months of feelings into words that wouldn’t sound completely pathetic. His trash can was already full of crumpled drafts. This was his seventh attempt, and the heart-shaped stationery the program had given him was starting to feel like a joke.
Who even used heart-shaped paper? What was he, twelve?
But it was too late to back out now. He’d signed up. He’d committed. And if he didn’t write this tonight, he’d lose his nerve completely.
His desk lamp pooled warm light across the page. The heating vent hummed in the corner. Des was snoring softly, one arm flung over his face. Everything was quiet except for the sound of Alex’s pen scratching against paper, then stopping, then starting again.
What did you say to someone who didn’t know you existed? How did you explain that you’d been watching them for months without sounding like a complete creep?
Alex chewed on the end of his pen and stared at the ceiling. He could picture him so clearly. The way he always sat in the same spot in the library, third floor, literature section, by the window where the afternoon light hit just right. The way he underlined passages in pencil, never pen, like he was afraid to commit to permanence. The way he pushed his glasses up when he was concentrating, this absent gesture that made Alex’s chest ache for reasons he couldn’t explain.
He’d never even spoken to him. Not really. There was that one time in the lecture hall when he’d handed back a notebook, but that didn’t count. Two seconds of eye contact and a quiet “thanks” wasn’t a conversation. It was nothing.
Except it hadn’t felt like anything. Not to Alex.
He looked down at the paper again. The heart shape was mocking him. This was stupid. This was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. He should just throw it away and forget the whole thing.
But his hand was already moving, pen forming words before his brain could stop them.
To someone I’ve only seen in fragments.
Alex paused. That sounded okay. Not too desperate. Not too much.
He kept writing.
I don’t know if you’ll even read this. I don’t know if you’ll care. But I’ve spent three months watching the way you underline passages in books at the library, and I think you deserve to know that someone notices.
His hand was shaking. He gripped the pen tighter.
You read like you’re looking for something. I hope you find it.
God, this was terrible. This was the worst thing anyone had ever written. He should stop. He should crumple this up with all the others and pretend he’d never had this idea in the first place.
But he didn’t stop. The words kept coming, spilling out like they’d been waiting for permission.
Maybe it sounds foolish, but some nights when the campus feels too loud and I feel too small, I think about the fact that you exist somewhere under the same sky, and it helps.
Alex’s throat felt tight. He blinked hard and kept writing.
I won’t sign this. I’m not brave enough for that. But I wanted you to know that you make the world feel less lonely.
He stared at what he’d written. It was honest. Too honest, probably. The kind of honesty that could ruin everything if the wrong person read it.
But that was the whole point of being anonymous, wasn’t it? He could say things on paper that he’d never be able to say out loud. He could be brave here, in the safety of unsigned words and heart-shaped stationery.
At the bottom of the page, he wrote:
Someone who sees you
Alex read it over three times. His stomach was doing something weird and fluttery. This was real now. Once he sent this, there was no taking it back. Someone would read these words. Him. The guy from the library who didn’t know Alex existed would hold this paper and read these words and know that someone out there was thinking about him.
The thought was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
Des rolled over in his sleep, mumbling something about pizza. Alex glanced at him, then back at the letter. The clock on his desk said 2:47 AM. He had class at nine. He should sleep.
Instead, he pulled out one of the envelopes the program had given him. Plain white, no return address. Just a number where his name should be. His writer number. The thing that would keep him hidden.
His hands were definitely shaking now as he folded the letter and slid it into the envelope. He sealed it before he could change his mind. Wrote the recipient information in careful print. Elias Reed. TA for Professor Hartley. Campus mailbox 2847.
Done. It was done.
Alex held the envelope for a long moment, feeling the weight of it. Such a small thing. Just paper and ink and feelings he’d been carrying around for months. But it felt huge. It felt like jumping off something high and hoping there was water below to catch him.
He tucked the envelope into his bag, turned off his desk lamp, and climbed into bed. Sleep didn’t come. He lay there in the dark, listening to Des snore and the wind rattle the window, and tried not to think about tomorrow. About walking to the student center and dropping that envelope into the mailbox. About the fact that once he did, there was no going back.
His phone screen lit up the dark. 3:15 AM.
Alex closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally. This was fine. This was good, even. He was doing something instead of just watching and wanting. He was taking a chance, even if it was the smallest, safest chance possible.
Maybe nothing would come of it. Probably nothing would come of it. The guy would read it and throw it away and forget about it five minutes later. That was the most likely outcome.
But there was a chance, however small, that he’d read it and feel something. That he’d wonder who wrote it. That he’d keep it, maybe, tucked away somewhere safe.
And that chance, that tiny possibility, was enough to make Alex’s heart race in the dark.
Tomorrow. He’d mail it tomorrow, first thing in the morning, before he could talk himself out of it. He’d drop it in the box and walk away and try not to think about what happened next.
Tomorrow, everything would change. Or nothing would. There was no way to know.
Alex pulled his blanket up to his chin and stared at the ceiling until his eyes finally got heavy. His last thought before sleep took him was simple and terrifying and true.
The letter was out of his hands now. Or it would be, soon enough. And there was no taking it back.