Chapter 1: The Note That Waited

While searching for high school textbooks for my cousin’s child, I stumbled upon a note tucked inside my old English lit book.

Neat, careful handwriting. Like someone took their time.

It read:

*"I like you."*

I remember that afternoon—right before the SATs—like it was yesterday. The library was buzzing with nerves and the smell of old paper. He poked me in the back, just enough to snap me out of it.

I turned to look at him, half expecting a joke, half bracing for some weird request. Here we go.

Even though time was tight for cramming, I’d always been patient with him. It was almost a routine—me, explaining; him, pretending to listen and then actually listening, eyes bright. Classic.

He propped his chin up with one hand, all casual. "Let me borrow your English book for a sec." He grinned.

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Just wanna see if you marked anything I missed."

It seemed a little odd, but I shrugged it off. I pulled out my English book and handed it to him, the cover soft from years of use. The moment he took it, he ran his thumb along the edge, like he was searching for something.

I’d already finished reviewing. After he gave it back, I never touched it again. I just slid it onto my shelf, letting it gather dust while life moved on.

After graduation, we gradually lost touch. Messages faded into nothing, memories blurred by time. That’s just how it goes, I guess.

And then, today. Twelve years later.

My cousin’s daughter needed to borrow my old textbooks to get a head start on her senior year over summer break. She didn’t have anyone her age to borrow from, so even though the books had changed a lot in twelve years, they were better than nothing. The way she clutched the books reminded me of myself at that age—eager, a little anxious, hopeful.

While searching for the books, a yellowed note fell out of the English textbook. It fluttered to the floor, landing face-up. Like it was waiting for me.

I paused, stunned, and bent down to pick it up. My heart started racing, like my seventeen-year-old self was right behind me.

The handwriting was bold, each stroke deliberate—

*"I like you."*

But the thing is…

He liked me when he was eighteen, and I only found out at thirty.

The irony stung, bittersweet and sharp.

After my cousin left, I stared blankly at that "[Offline]" avatar in my old Facebook Messenger contacts. I didn’t even have his Instagram. His name sat there, unchanged. Like a ghost from another life.

After hesitating for a long time, I finally clicked into his chat window. I typed… deleted… over and over, who knows how many times. Every draft—too formal, too casual, too desperate. Or just… too late.

In the end, I realized I didn’t even have the courage to send a simple "Hey, you there?" Not even a "Hey, you there?"

I sighed and closed the chat. The weight of twelve years settled over me, heavier than I expected.