The Secret Between Us

 Part 2: The Secret Between Us

 1. The Mysterious Note

I couldn't concentrate.

Not on the professor's lecture. Not on the notes I was supposed to be writing. And definitely not on the boy sitting beside me.

Some people enter your life because fate has a plan. Others enter because fate is about to take something away.

Who wrote that?

More importantly, why was it inside my notebook?

I glanced at Adrian.

He was resting his chin on one hand, staring at the board with an expression that suggested he was actually listening. His other hand held a black pen, which he occasionally spun between his fingers.

He looked perfectly innocent.

Too innocent.

I leaned toward him.

“Did you put this in my notebook?”

He didn't look at me.

“Put what?”

I showed him the paper.

His fingers stopped moving.

For the briefest moment, his expression changed. His jaw tightened, and his eyes dropped to the handwriting.

Then he leaned back.

“No.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

“And you're terrible at minding your own business.”

I gasped quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?”

I stared at him, offended.

Who did this guy think he was?

I had spent years perfecting the art of dealing with difficult people. I could handle demanding professors, annoying classmates, and Mika when she hadn't eaten for more than three hours.

But Adrian Reyes?

He was a different kind of problem.

I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket.

“Fine. Keep your secrets.”

“Gladly.”

“Don't expect me to talk to you again.”

“That's fine.”

I turned away.

Three seconds later, he spoke.

“Lianne.”

I ignored him.

“Lianne.”

Still ignored him.

“Your pen is leaking.”

I looked down.

A blue stain had spread across my fingers.

“Oh, my God!”

I scrambled for tissues, nearly knocking over my water bottle in the process.

Adrian handed me a clean handkerchief.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

“Why do you have a handkerchief?”

“Because people occasionally make messes.”

“Are you calling me messy?”

“I'm simply making an observation.”

I snatched the handkerchief from his hand.

“I hate you.”

“That's a strong feeling for someone you've known for less than twenty-four hours.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

Nothing came out.

He smiled faintly.

And I hated that I noticed.

### 2. The Boy Everyone Wanted to Know

By lunchtime, I had learned three things about Adrian Reyes.

First, he was annoyingly handsome.

Second, almost everyone on campus seemed to know him.

And third, he apparently had no interest in being anyone's friend.

“Girl, are you seriously sitting beside Adrian Reyes?”

Mika dropped into the chair across from me, carrying a tray of food and the expression of someone who had just discovered the biggest scandal of the year.

I continued eating.

“Yes, Mika. That's generally what happens when someone sits beside you.”

She leaned forward.

“Do you even know who he is?”

“A student?”

“LIANNE!”

“What?”

“Adrian Reyes is the son of Reyes Holdings' chairman!”

I blinked.

“And?”

“And he's practically the most sought-after guy in this university!”

I looked around the cafeteria.

Several girls were whispering near the entrance. A group of students at the next table kept glancing toward the doors.

Apparently, Adrian's arrival was more exciting than the free food being served at the student center.

“He's also known for rejecting every girl who confesses to him,” Mika continued. “Last semester, someone sent him flowers every single day for a week.”

“What happened?”

“He returned them.”

“That's not so bad.”

“With a note saying, 'Please stop wasting flowers.'”

I nearly choked on my drink.

“That's horrible!”

“Exactly! He's cold, arrogant, and impossible to understand.”

I thought about the handkerchief in my bag.

The one he had given me without hesitation.

“Maybe he's just shy,” I said.

Mika looked at me as though I had announced that the earth was flat.

“Shy? That man looks like he was born disappointed in humanity.”

I laughed.

Then I noticed Mika looking over my shoulder.

Her expression changed.

“Oh, no.”

I turned.

Adrian was walking toward our table.

He carried a tray with a single cup of black coffee.

The entire cafeteria seemed to grow quieter as he approached.

He stopped beside me.

“Is this seat taken?”

I stared at him.

There were at least ten empty tables.

“You're asking me?”

“You're sitting here.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Then I'll ask again. Is this seat taken?”

Mika was practically vibrating with excitement across from me.

I sighed.

“No.”

Adrian sat down.

Just like that.

As if sitting beside me were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Mika looked at me, then at him, then back at me.

I could practically hear the questions forming inside her head.

Adrian took a sip of coffee.

“Your friend talks a lot.”

Mika gasped.

“And you don't talk enough!”

He looked at her.

“Good. We balance each other out.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.

Mika kicked me beneath the table.

Hard.

I kicked her back.

Adrian watched us with mild curiosity.

Then his gaze settled on me.

“What are you doing after class?”

I froze.

Mika stopped chewing.

Somewhere across the cafeteria, someone dropped a spoon.

I slowly set down my fork.

“Why?”

“I need your help.”

“With what?”

“Writing.”

I frowned.

“Writing what?”

He took another sip of coffee.

“A letter.”

I studied him carefully.

For the first time since meeting him, he didn't look amused.

He looked serious.

Almost afraid.

“To whom?” I asked.

Adrian lowered his eyes to his cup.

“Someone I should have written to a long time ago.”

### 3. A Letter That Was Never Sent

At four in the afternoon, I found myself standing outside the university library, wondering why I had agreed to help a boy who clearly had a talent for making me curious.

Adrian arrived five minutes later.

He wore a dark jacket and carried a small brown envelope.

“You came,” he said.

“You asked for help.”

“I didn't think you would.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Why ask, then?”

He didn't answer.

Instead, he handed me the envelope.

Inside was a blank sheet of paper and a photograph.

The photograph showed a young woman standing beside a little boy near the sea. Both were smiling. The boy looked about five years old, with messy hair and bright eyes.

I recognized the man in the picture immediately.

Adrian.

But he looked different.

He looked happy.

I glanced at the woman beside him.

“Who's she?”

“My mother.”

I looked at him again.

He sat on the bench outside the library, his hands clasped together.

“She died when I was twelve,” he said quietly.

The words were simple.

His voice wasn't.

I sat beside him without speaking.

For once, I didn't know what to say.

“I used to write her letters,” he continued. “When I was a child, I would write about school, the people I met, and the things I wanted to do when I grew up.”

He gave a small, distant smile.

“She kept every single one.”

I looked down at the photograph.

“What happened?”

“After she died, I stopped writing.”

He took the picture from my hands and ran his thumb along its edge.

“My father told me that being emotional wouldn't bring her back. He said I had to grow up and learn to live without her.”

Adrian paused.

“So I did.”

The wind moved gently through the trees.

“But sometimes,” he whispered, “I still have things I want to tell her.”

My chest tightened.

I had never imagined that someone like Adrian could carry so much sadness.

He looked at me.

“Can you help me write one more letter?”

I nodded slowly.

“Of course.”

He handed me the paper.

I shook my head and returned it to him.

“No.”

His eyebrows drew together.

“No?”

“You should write it yourself.”

“I don't know how.”

“Then don't try to make it perfect.”

I smiled gently.

“Just write what you want her to know.”

He stared at the blank page.

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

Then he took out his pen.

And he began.

I looked away to give him privacy, watching students walk past the library and listening to the distant sounds of traffic.

For the first time, I wasn't thinking about how handsome he was or how irritating he could be.

I was thinking about how lonely someone must feel when they have so much to say and no idea where to put the words.

A few minutes later, he folded the paper.

“Thank you,” he said.

I smiled.

“You're welcome.”

He slipped the letter into the envelope.

Then he looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite understand.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you want to become a writer?”

I thought about it.

“Because I want people to feel less alone.”

His eyes remained on mine.

“And if you write a story that makes someone cry?”

“Then I hope they cry because they finally understand something they couldn't explain before.”

Adrian looked down.

“And if the story doesn't have a happy ending?”

I smiled faintly.

“Not every story needs a happy ending to mean something.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said something that I would remember long after I had forgotten the details of that afternoon.

“Promise me something, Lianne.”

“What?”

“If you ever write about me, don't make me the villain just because I make mistakes.”

I laughed softly.

“That's a very dramatic request.”

“I'm serious.”

I studied his face.

Then I nodded.

“Okay. But you have to promise me something, too.”

“What?”

“If you ever have something to say, don't wait until it's too late.”

Adrian looked at me.

And for a moment, I felt as though he understood something about my words that I didn't.

“I'll try,” he said.

It wasn't a promise.

Not really.

But I believed him anyway.

### 4. The Message at Midnight

That night, I sat at my desk with my laptop open, staring at the first page of a new story.

I had no idea what to call it.

Maybe The Boy Who Never Smiled.

Maybe The Letter He Couldn't Send.

Or maybe something less embarrassing.

My phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

Unknown: Are you awake?

I frowned.

Me: Who is this?

Unknown: The person who lent you a handkerchief.

I sat up straight.

Me: HOW DID YOU GET MY NUMBER?

Adrian: Your student profile is publicly accessible.

Me: That's creepy.

Adrian: Good evening to you, too.

I laughed despite myself.

Me: What do you want, Reyes?

Adrian: I wanted to ask if you got home safely.

I stared at the message.

It was such a small question.

Such an ordinary thing.

But for some reason, I read it three times.

Me: Yes. I'm home. You?

Adrian: Yes.

A pause.

Then another message arrived.

Adrian: Lianne?

Me: What?

Adrian: Thank you for today.

I smiled at my phone.

Me: You're welcome, Adrian.

I thought the conversation was over.

Then my screen lit up one final time.

Adrian: Good night, writer.

I placed my phone beside my pillow and stared at the ceiling.

I was smiling.

Actually smiling.

Over a boy I had known for barely two days.

A boy whose favorite drink was black coffee.

A boy who carried grief like a secret.

A boy who had asked me not to turn him into a villain.

I didn't know what any of it meant.

I didn't know that, months later, I would recognize his footsteps before I saw his face.

That I would learn the sound of his laughter and the meaning behind his silences.

That I would fall in love with him so slowly I wouldn't notice until it was already too late.

All I knew was that, for the f

irst time in a long while, I was excited to see what tomorrow would bring.

And somewhere across the city, Adrian Reyes was sitting alone in his room, holding a letter addressed to a woman who would never read it.

Beside the letter was the photograph of his mother.

And beneath it, hidden inside a drawer he rarely opened, was another envelope.

One with his name written on the front.

One he had been afraid to read for years.

One that contained the truth about the past he had never told anyone.

Not even me.

End of Episode 1 — Part 2.

Next: Episode 1, Part 3 — The Secret in the Drawer.