A year ago, during the first elective class of the first semester of freshman year.

I found a small notebook deep inside a desk drawer in the subject classroom. I peeked at the first page when the teacher wasn't looking, and there was writing on it.

It was a sharp, scribbly handwriting.

I chuckled to myself, thinking 'What is this?', and out of curiosity, I left a reply without even realizing it.

That was the beginning. Sharing my worries with you, whose name and face I didn't even know, leaving replies, and spending my days smiling because of it.

. . .

Sophomore year, first semester. I went to the elective class just like any other day.

I saw someone through the gap in the door. ...Someone was sitting in the seat I always sat in.

The school's famous delinquent, the troublemaker, the piece of trash.

He was writing something in that notebook, the one that held our stories.

After a few minutes, class started and he left the room. I sat down and checked the notebook—

There was new content written in the same handwriting I had always seen.

It really was him.

...Why did it have to be you?