"I've read every single one."
The words come out rougher than I intend. Hoarse with emotion, I don't know how to name.
Her eyes go wide.
Those mismatched irises—blue and green and absolutely devastating—expanding as understanding starts to crash through her.
"Every written piece of work," I continue, my thumb still stroking her lip, her pulse still pounding against my palm. "From the admirer who enjoys sealing her emotional storytelling with four droplets of blood."
A sound escapes her.
Not quite a gasp.
Not quite a sob.
Something in between—the noise of someone whose reality is shifting beneath their feet, who's realizing that the impossible might actually be possible after all.
"It's always four," I murmur. "Every letter. Four drops. Even number. I never asked why, but I noticed. I've always noticed, S.E."
The trembling gets worse.
Her whole body is shaking now—not just with cold or trauma but with the overwhelming force of recognition, of hope, of the terrifying possibility that the person she's been writing to for five years is standing right in front of her.
"You—" Her voice breaks. Cracks. Barely a whisper through rain-soaked lips. "You're?—"
She can't finish.
Can't find the words.
Can't do anything except stare at me with those shattered eyes, speechless and trembling and so fuckingbeautifulit makes my chest ache.
I lean closer.
Close enough that our breath mingles.
Close enough that her scent—cotton candy and rain and the sharp edge of distress—fills my lungs completely.
"I've spent five years wondering what you look like," I breathe. "Wondering what your voice sounds like. Wondering if you were real, or just a figment I created because I was too broken to believe in connection with anyone else."
Her lips part.
No sound comes out.
But I can feel her pulse spike beneath my palm. Can feel the way her body leans toward me, infinitesimally, instinctively—seeking the connection we've been building through paper and ink and blood for half a decade.
"You smell like cotton candy," I tell her. "I caught your scent outside the post office and couldn't get it out of my head. Couldn't stop thinking about the girl who belonged to it. And then you crashed into me, and I saw your face, and I still didn't know."
A tear slides down her cheek.
Or maybe it's rain.
I can't tell anymore.
"Not until Maria mentioned the girl who was crying because she hadn't heard from her pen pal in forty-seven days." My voice drops even lower. "Forty-seven days. Because I was here. Because I couldn't access my mail drop. Because I had no idea you were so close this whole time."
Her mouth shapes my pen name—S.W.—but no sound comes out.
I smile.
