Sorry, Letter Thief, But That One’s Actually Mine

§01

The first time I saw the letter, it was a ghost.

A pale pink rectangle pinned to the felt of the main hall bulletin board, stark against a sea of monochrome flyers.

My ghost.

My death warrant.

My breath snagged in my throat, a sharp, painful thing.

Around me, the morning rush of Lantern Hill Regional High swirled on, oblivious.

Lockers slammed.

Sneakers squeaked.

Someone laughed, a sound so carefree it felt like a physical blow.

But all I could hear was the frantic, panicked drumming of my own heart against my ribs.

All I could see was that letter.

Pale pink, linen-textured stationery.

I’d ghostwritten dozens of assignments for half the senior class—essays, lab reports, poems for English class.

But I only used that specific paper for one type of job.

The lucrative one.

The one that paid a dollar a word.

Love letters.

And that one, hanging there for the entire student body to see, wasn’t signed.

A tremor started in my hands, a cold wave of dread washing over me.

This wasn’t an accident.

This was a weapon.

Aimed directly at me.

“What’s everyone staring at?” Sadie’s voice, bubbly and bright, cut through my haze.

She followed my gaze, her cheerful expression melting into a small ‘o’ of surprise.

“Whoa. Someone’s brave.”

I couldn’t speak.

My tongue was a dry, useless weight in my mouth.

The crowd around the board was thickening, murmurs rising like steam.

I saw Conrad Roth near the front, his posture ramrod straight, a frown creasing his brow.

My ex-best-friend.

My ex-desk-mate.

The architect of the cold war that had defined my senior year so far.

His eyes swept the crowd, and for a terrifying second, they locked with mine.

There was no recognition.

Just the same cool, dismissive judgment he’d worn for the past month.

Then, the sea of students parted.

Vice Principal Thompson stood there, his face a thundercloud.

He marched to the board, his sensible shoes making no sound on the linoleum.

He tore it down.

That single sheet of pink paper.

He held it up, his voice booming across the suddenly silent hall.

“Whose is this?”

No one answered.

The silence was absolute, heavy.

Vice Principal Thompson’s eyes scanned every face, lingering on the known couples, the flirts, the rebels.

“I will ask one more time,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Who wrote this?”

My hand, slick with sweat, tightened on the strap of my worn backpack.

This was it.

My entire fragile world—the cafeteria work-study that got me lunch, the ghostwriting that paid for my brother’s medication, the academic scholarship that was my only ticket out of this town—was about to shatter.

I took a half-step forward, the words “It was me” forming on my lips.

It was better to confess than to be found out.

But before I could speak, a voice cut through the tension, cool and steady.

“I don’t know who wrote it.”

Every head turned.

Conrad Roth.

He stood a little straighter, his expression unreadable as he met the Vice Principal’s glare.

“But I know who it was for.”

A collective gasp rippled through the hall.

Thompson narrowed his eyes. “And who would that be, Mr. Roth?”

Conrad’s gaze flickered to me again, just for a fraction of a second.

Then he looked back at the Vice Principal, his face a mask of calm indifference.

“Me.”

§02

The word hung in the air, electric.

Chaos erupted.

Whispers turned into a roar of speculation.

Conrad Roth?

The guy who timed his lunch breaks with a stopwatch and color-coded his study schedule?

The guy whose idea of a wild Friday night was reorganizing his bookshelf?

It was unthinkable.

It was perfect.

He was the last person anyone would suspect, which made him the most believable person of all.

I stood frozen, a bizarre mix of terror and a strange, unwelcome flicker of gratitude washing over me.

He was saving me.

But why?

Our friendship hadn’t just ended; it had been systematically dismantled, piece by painful piece, by his own hand.

It started the month before, in the cafeteria line. I was juggling three trays, a side hustle I’d picked up to earn a few extra bucks.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Conrad’s voice, sharp with disapproval, had cut through the lunchtime chatter. “This is inefficient and no different than cutting in line.”

The casual cruelty of his public shaming had burned hot on my cheeks.

I’d tried to explain, later, showing him the worn-out soles of my shoes, the second-hand textbooks I couldn’t afford to replace.

He’d just pushed his glasses up his nose. “This is a short-term solution to a long-term problem, Hazel. Your focus should be on your studies. I’m saying this for your own good.”

That was Conrad’s favorite phrase.

For your own good.

It was the reason he’d reported my tutoring side-gig to the school board.

The reason he’d called the manager of the bookstore where I worked weekends.

It was the reason I had moved my seat to the furthest corner of the classroom, leaving the desk next to him cold and empty.

And now, he was claiming my anonymous, for-hire love letter?

It didn’t make sense.

“Mr. Roth,” Vice Principal Thompson said, his tone skeptical. “You’re claiming this… piece of romantic correspondence… was intended for you?”

“I am,” Conrad said, his voice unwavering.

“Then you won’t mind if I read it aloud to verify its contents?” Thompson challenged, a cruel glint in his eye.

Panic seized me again.

The letter was a tapestry of clichés I’d woven for a client, full of breathless nonsense about stars and souls.

But I’d also poured a tiny piece of my own secret longing into it. A description of a smile that could melt winter ice, of eyes that held the warmth of a sunrise.

Details I’d stolen from quiet observations of someone else entirely.

“I would mind, actually,” a new voice said, light and easy, yet cutting through the noise like a bell.

The crowd shifted again.

Emmett Beckett was leaning against a locker, his new school uniform looking effortlessly cool.

He pushed off the locker and ambled forward, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

That smile.

The one that could melt winter ice.

He stopped beside Conrad, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder that somehow looked deeply condescending.

“Sorry, letter thief,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

He turned his smile, dimples and all, on Vice Principal Thompson.

“But that one’s mine.”

§03

If Conrad’s confession had been a shockwave, Emmett’s was a full-blown earthquake.

Emmett Beckett.

The new kid.

The transfer student who’d appeared two weeks ago like some golden-haired Greek god dropped into the dreary halls of Lantern Hill.

The boy who had, to my quiet bewilderment, chosen to sit at the empty desk beside me.

My new desk mate.

The Campus Prince.

And, as of five minutes ago, the other claimant to my ghostwritten letter.

Vice Principal Thompson looked like he was about to short-circuit. His head swiveled between the two boys. “What is the meaning of this?”

Emmett just shrugged, his expression one of polite confusion. “It’s a love letter. It was written to me. He,” Emmett gestured to Conrad, “must have picked it up by mistake.”

Conrad’s face, usually a pale, controlled mask, was flushed with anger. “I did not ‘pick it up by mistake.’ It was clearly intended for me.”

“Really?” Emmett tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Does it mention a fondness for laminated to-do lists? A passionate love for inorganic chemistry? Because if not, I think you might be mistaken.”

A few snickers rippled through the crowd.

Conrad’s jaw tightened.

This was a nightmare. A surreal, slow-motion, three-ring circus of a nightmare, and I was the terrified clown at the center of it all.

My only job was to be invisible.

To slip through the cracks of high school, get my scholarship, and disappear.

And now, the two most noticeable boys in the senior class were playing tug-of-war with my secret.

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