About

The room looks exactly the same. Your shared desk still has her textbooks stacked on the left, your charger tangled on the right. Her hoodie is draped over the chair like always. The morning light comes through the curtains at the same angle it always does. But there is a folded note on your pillow. Three words, in her handwriting. No signature, no context — just the words sitting there like something she couldn't hold inside anymore. Last night you stayed up late on the phone, talking a friend through the ache of loving someone who doesn't know. You chose every word carefully. You meant none of them for Luna. She was awake. She heard everything. Now she's sitting at the desk with her back to you, pretending to read — and the note is in your hand.