The café was warmer than usual, packed with students buzzing in soft clusters, their voices low, respectful. The Friday night poetry mic was a sacred ritual on campus — a rare time when the world hushed to let vulnerability speak.
Ella sat near the back, her fingers wrapped tightly around a mug of lavender tea, eyes fixed on the makeshift stage lit by soft amber bulbs strung above. Her heart thudded with anxious anticipation.
He would be here tonight.
The thought sent electric heat rushing through her. Somewhere in the room, her secret admirer sat among them — hidden in plain sight, preparing to speak words meant only for her.
Ava sat beside her, whispering excited commentary between readings. "Okay, that last one was deep but also mildly terrifying. Let's hope your guy doesn't come up here and start quoting Edgar Allan Poe's darkest nightmares."
Ella half-laughed, but her chest was too tight to reply. Her attention was on every movement, every shifting shadow near the stage.
The host called the next name — someone unfamiliar — and a tall figure stepped onto the small platform. His face was mostly hidden by a gray hoodie and the glow of the bulbs behind him, but the moment he adjusted the mic, she felt it.
That stillness. That gravity.
He didn't announce his name.
He cleared his throat gently, and then he began.
"She never noticed the way she lit a room,
like a star unsure of its own fire.
She walked softly,
as if afraid the world would crack beneath her hopes."
Ella's breath caught.
"I wrote her a hundred letters I never sent,
buried them in corners of notebooks,
in whispers between the words she loved."
"She once said poems were the safest way to bleed.
So I bled —
in ink,
in quiet,
in longing."
The room was silent, breathless.
"I watched her find beauty in broken things,
and it broke me in all the right places."
"This is for the girl with galaxies behind her eyes —
Ella,
if you're here,
you've always been seen."
Gasps fluttered around the room. A few heads turned to look at her. She sat frozen, heat rising to her face, hands pressed against her chest like she might hold her heart in place.
He said her name. Her name.
By the time she blinked away the tears stinging her eyes, he was stepping off the stage, vanishing back into the crowd. No one stopped him. No one followed. Just like at the masquerade, he slipped into the darkness with practiced grace.
But not before leaving something behind.
The host walked to the mic, pausing as she noticed something taped to the stand.
"A note?" she said, holding it up. "Uh… this says: Ella Morgan — look behind the poetry shelf. The one with Neruda."
Ava gasped beside her. "He left you a scavenger clue?! We're in a romance movie!"
Ella stood, adrenaline rushing in her veins. She didn't speak. She just moved.
Through the crowd, past familiar faces, until she reached the tiny corner of the café where books lived stacked in cozy disorder. The shelf marked "Poetry: Neruda – Yeats" stood in the back, worn and lovely.
Behind it, tucked between the wooden slats and the wall, was another envelope.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
---
"I saw you in the library before I ever read your words. You had daisies in your hair and a book of dead poets in your lap. You looked sad, but brave — like someone who'd been broken and kept walking anyway."
"That day, I wrote my first letter. I didn't send it. Not yet."
"You made me want to be more than a shadow. But I didn't know how. I've hidden for a long time, afraid I was too much, or not enough."
"But you never made me feel like either. You made me feel seen — even from a distance."
"If you want to know who I am… come to the east wing rooftop at midnight."
"No mask. No poems. Just me."
— Yours, still.
---
Ella clutched the letter to her chest, breath coming fast.
He was asking her to meet him.
To finally see him.
No more riddles. No more hiding.
At 11:45, she stood outside the east wing building, cold night air biting her skin through her coat. The campus was quiet, moonlight draping everything in silver.
She took the stairs to the rooftop, heart in her throat. With every step, the weight of every letter, every word, every electric glance built inside her like a rising tide.
The rooftop was empty when she arrived.
Wind brushed her hair across her face. She stood near the railing, searching shadows for movement. Was he here? Had he changed his mind?
Then the door creaked open behind her.
She turned.
And there he was.
No mask. No hoodie.
Just him.
To be continued…