Lianne sat motionless at her usual spot in the third-floor corner of the school library - her safe haven from the constant buzz of nursing life. Outside the window, Manila's evening rush blurred into streaks of red and yellow, the sun hanging low like an ember in a dying fire. But inside her heart, something strange stirred, something louder than the traffic, heavier than any textbook.

She stared at the letter again. The handwriting was unmistakable. The loops of the y's, the delicate tails of the g's, the way the t's crossed with a gentle flick - it was hers. But she hadn't written it.

"Your words make me feel seen. You don't know me, but I read every letter you've left. Please don't stop."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the ink. There was a chill in her spine, the kind that came not from fear, but from the eerie feeling of being... watched. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made her feel known.

She quickly shoved the letter into her binder and glanced around. The library was nearly empty, save for a couple of students in scrubs hunched over their laptops and a guy she recognized from the med building, sitting by the glass panels. He had dark hair, long fingers, and a face that always seemed caught mid-thought - serious, unreadable.

Callan.

She'd seen him before - during hospital duty in Pasig. Quiet. Efficient. He wasn't the loud type. In fact, she couldn't recall if she'd ever heard him speak more than five words at a time. But now, her heart whispered things her mind wasn't ready to hear.

No. It can't be him.

Could it?

Back in her dorm, Lianne spread her old letters on the bed like puzzle pieces. They were her secret joy - little notes she'd written to no one in particular and tucked into books like tiny wishes.

"If today feels heavy, I hope tomorrow's lighter."

"You matter. Even if no one says it."

Never signed. Never meant to be found, really. Just words to the world, from one heart to another.

But someone had been reading them. And more than that - someone had started replying, mimicking her style perfectly. It wasn't just handwriting. It was her. Her way of speaking, of pausing, of stringing thoughts like soft threads of silk.

Whoever it was had been studying her closely.

Too closely.

She leaned back on her pillows, heart racing.

Was it creepy? A little.

Was it romantic?

Maybe.

If it was who she was beginning to suspect - the quiet med guy with the stormy eyes - it was something else entirely.

The Next Day

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Kara said, sipping her iced coffee too loudly, as usual. "You write anonymous love letters to strangers in books... and now someone's writing back... but pretending to be you?"

"They're not pretending. They're... copying me. My actual handwriting. It's freakishly accurate."

Kara narrowed her eyes. "That's either sweet or psychotic."

Lianne shoved a hand through her ponytail. "That's what I can't figure out."

"And you think it might be Callan?"

"I don't know! Maybe. He's always... there."

Kara shrugged. "Well, maybe he's just shy and totally into you."

"Or he's a really convincing letter forger."

"That too."

They laughed, but Lianne couldn't shake the weight in her chest - a mixture of intrigue and anxiety. If it was Callan, why hide behind letters? Why not just say something?

Unless... he couldn't.

That Night

Her heart thudded when she returned to her dorm room and found a letter slipped under her door.

I'm not trying to scare you. I just... don't know how else to talk to you. I don't know how to be the person you'd want me to be. But I can write. I can do that. So please don't hate me.

It was signed - with a single initial:

C.