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The first day of George’s senior year of high school is marked as one of the hottest days on record that summer. Blistering heat pounds down on the sidewalk, enough to make him sweat even though he’s barely walking two steps outside of his house. It’s times like these when he’s grateful that he has a best friend who can drive him to and from school every day.
“Hey,” Dream says as he’s swinging himself into his passenger seat. George tosses his school bag in the backseat, and the whole car wobbles just slightly at the motion. A teasing grin spreads across Dream’s face. “You look excited for today.”
“Shut up,” George tells him, holding back his smile as he sinks into the car seats. “I’m just excited to get this year over with.”
Dream frowns from next to him. He drums his fingers steadily against the steering wheel. “You’re really not excited for anything else this year?”
George makes a face at him. “No. Graduation, I guess.”
“That’s—” Dream starts, and then cuts himself off. “Okay. That’s interesting.”
The sun is a little too bright as Dream drives towards school, golden light hitting George right in the face and making him squint. He’s the type of guy to roll out of bed minutes before Dream arrives in his driveway, throwing on a random outfit and brushing his teeth with the kind of haphazard abandon that early mornings thread out of him.
Dream, on the other hand, has always been a bit more of an early riser — he’s been waking up hours before school every morning since sophomore year so he can make it to football practice on time. George is still a little surprised that he manages to go to practice, shower, and then make it to George’s house in time to drive back to school, but it works for them.
Dream’s the football captain and star quarterback this year, all long legs and strong limbs. It makes a small part of George wonder why someone like Dream’s still friends with him. George isn’t unpopular or unathletic by any means — he’s been playing on the school soccer team since he was a freshman — but Dream’s just sort of outgoing in all the ways that George isn’t.
When they arrive, Dream’s car keys jangle around his finger as he pulls them out of the ignition and grabs their backpacks out of the back seat. Outside, he tosses one to George, slings the other one around his shoulders, and George has to squint up through the unrelenting sun to get a good look at him. If Dream looks any different this school year, George doesn’t notice. They’ve spent the entire summer together anyways: late nights at the skatepark, early mornings at Dream’s house after a sleepover, afternoons at the mall or the arcade or the park.
“I have to go talk to coach before first period, so I can’t walk you to your locker,” Dream tells him, pointing his thumb back towards the football field on the other end of the parking lot. “I’ll see you later?”
“Sure. Good luck,” George offers from over his shoulder.
He’s had the same locker ever since freshman year, and it’s sort of become unmistakably his over his time at this school — there are stickers from each of his friends plastered across the outside door, and on the inside, it’s gotten a little too dusty because he can’t be bothered to clean it out. Muscle memory jolts his mind into action as he spins his combination into the lock.
What George doesn’t expect to see when the metal door swings open is a letter, carefully folded up within a green envelope, fluttering towards the laminate ground.
Confusion overrides George’s mind first. He doesn’t get letters, doesn’t ever write them in the first place. His brain is still whirling as he bends down with two shaky knees to pick the piece of paper off the ground. There’s a sticker of a little golden star holding the envelope closed, and George carefully edges his fingernail underneath so he can slip it open. Whatever this is, it can’t be for him, and he doesn’t want to tear the paper.
Dear George, the letter starts in handwritten black ink, and he feels his breath catch in his throat. Okay. Nevermind then.
I know you don’t really like reading, but it’s our last year of high school and I feel like if I don’t do something now, then I’ll lose my chance with you forever.
I like you. A lot. And I’ve sort of liked you ever since the first time I saw you in the halls back in freshman year, when you first moved here and you didn’t know anyone. Sorry about having to write all this out instead of, y’know. Telling you to your face like a normal person. But you can’t really blame me for getting shy around you, can you?
Anyways, if you don’t want me to write you any more letters, then you can just ignore this one and leave it sticking out at the bottom of your locker after classes today. I get here pretty early in the mornings, so if you leave me anything then I’ll be the first one to see it. Hopefully you do like this letter though.
Maybe I’m getting my hopes up too much, but I think if you knew who I was, then maybe you’d like me back too.
I’ll be back with another letter tomorrow maybe?
Your secret admirer
What the fuck?
George sinks backwards against the hard metal of his locker door. The hallway is bustling this time of day, people passing by him in a flurry of backpacks and textbooks and broken pencils tucked behind their ears, but none of them seem to be able to meet his eye. The chances that whoever wrote him this letter is watching him right now are extraordinarily slim, but a small part of him can’t help but think that they’re somewhere nearby, carefully watching his reaction.
George swallows as he tucks his binder into the top shelf of his locker, runs his fingers over the creases in the letter paper. The letter is probably nothing, he thinks. Maybe it’s some cruel-hearted freshman playing a prank on him. Maybe it’s one of his friends trying to get him a boyfriend before the year is finally over.
Either way, though — George can’t really help the rise of heat to his skin and the airiness in his chest as he shuts his locker door behind him. He tucks the letter into the front pocket of his backpack and, selfishly, hopes that whoever took the time to write all that out was being sincere.
Sure enough, another letter falls out of George’s locker the next morning. This time though, Sapnap’s standing next to him, and he lets out a choked sound of surprise when he bends down to snatch up the letter before George can get the chance.
“Stop — give me that,” George snaps, but Sapnap’s already tearing the envelope open before he can do anything.
Sapnap’s eyes move rapidly as he skims over the letter. “Holy shit. You never told me that you had a secret admirer.”
“I don’t,” George bites, pulling the paper out of Sapnap’s grasp. “I got one letter yesterday. I didn’t actually think I was going to get another one.”
Laughter bubbles out of Sapnap’s throat. “Read it, then,” he says, and shoves it into George’s face.
Dear George,
You don’t know how relieved I was to see that you actually want more letters from me. Sometimes I get scared that you like someone else, because if you did, they’d probably like you back. But yeah. I feel good. Really, really good.
I really hope that you don’t know who I am yet, because 1. I’m not sure that I’m ready for that, 2. It’d be seriously embarrassing for me, and 3. I’m not sure that you’d be ready for that. Don’t worry, though. I can’t prove it just yet, but I’m not some weirdo who’s obsessed with you or something. Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it ;)
I thought that I’d end off this letter with one thing that I really admire about you: you’re so insanely humble, George, that it drives me a little bit crazy sometimes. I wish you could see yourself in the same way that I see you.
See you tomorrow :)
Your secret admirer
Sapnap’s eyes are peering over the paper so he can get a good look at George’s face. “You’re blushing,” he announces.
“I’m not,” George protests, even as he’s ducking his head down and carefully folding the letter into his backpack, right next to the one from yesterday. “I’m just surprised. Also, I have chemistry in five minutes.”
Sapnap’s shoulders bump against his as they make their way down the hall, towards the science classrooms. “I wonder if your secret admirer is in chemistry with you,” he teases.
George frowns. “I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because my secret admirer doesn’t exist,” George tells him, like it’s obvious.
Sapnap elbows him in the side. George jolts at the motion. “I think you’re stupid and in denial,” Sapnap says.
In chemistry, George slides into place at the lab bench next to Dream. It’s the only class that they have together, so most days, they try to make the most of it. Dream’s the kind of friend who tries to distract him by doodling on his paper all class. It usually works. George sort of loves it.
Today, Dream’s leaning all the way over so he can draw a collection of flowers in the bottom corner of George’s paper. He’s always been stupidly clingy like that, and today seems like no exception.
“For you,” Dream says, sounding much too self-satisfied. He taps the paper with the end of his pencil.
A smile pulls at George’s lips before he can think too hard about it. There’s a whole garden scattered across the bottom of his homework now. Part of him wants to act like he hates it, but in all truth, he really, really loves it. He nearly doesn’t want to finish the worksheet in fear of smudging the graphite.
“Thanks, Dream,” he says, and turns his attention back towards the board. The teacher’s going on about organic molecules. He can’t really be bothered to listen.
Something prods at his arm through his shirt. Dream’s looking at him when he turns his head, looking slightly concerned by way of the crease between his brows. “What are you thinking about?”
“Organic chemistry.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Dream whispers at him. He pokes him with the pencil again. “C’mon. Just tell me.”
George sighs. Dream’s always been a bit too persistent for his own good.
“I’ll tell you at lunch, okay?”
That seems to satisfy Dream for now — he smiles, teeth glinting, and then goes back to drawing out football plays and monsters and other cool teenage-boy shit on his own paper.
“So what’s the big deal?”
George isn’t really sure what he expected when he sat down next to Dream in the cafeteria, but here they are.
It’s rowdy and loud and smells like grease inside here. Both of them kind of hate it, but it’s far too hot to be eating outside. Sapnap’s staying behind in his computer science class to do some extra-credit work — as rowdy as he is, he’s also a little bit of a computer nerd, just like the rest of them. Dream’s practically pressing himself against their lunch table so George can see the desperation in his eyes.
“It’s nothing,” George tells him, thinking back to the letters in his backpack.
Dream frowns, fiddles with the bracelet looped around his wrist. It’s one of his nervous ticks that George has come to know. “It doesn’t feel like nothing. C’mon. You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”
George takes a breath. He’s not sure if he really wants to tell Dream about the letters. Dream’s always been the kind of guy to jump at things, almost impulsively, and George is a little bit afraid about how Dream would feel. They’re best friends, have been for years, and George doesn’t want some stupid letters in his locker to come between them.
George also might be secretly hoping that Dream is his secret admirer. Who wouldn’t? He’s tall and strong and smart in the way that only shows when he’s not in class, like when he’s thinking up football plays or he’s proposing some crazy idea to his friends. Dream’s never really expressed any interest in dating, though. So that idea goes straight out the window.
“I know,” George says, looking down at the table. He settles for a half-truth. “I’ve just been… stressed. About applications this year and my grades and stuff.”
Dream’s eyes soften. “You’re smart, George. Any school would let you in.”
George tries his hardest not to deflect the compliment too much. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and steers the subject away from him. “How’s football?”
It’s almost like something clicks in Dream’s mind with how his face shifts instantaneously towards excitement. George grins, props his head up with his fist, and prepares himself for another one of Dream’s long-winded rants about the season this year and practice earlier this morning.
George thinks that if doesn’t end up getting that secret admirer, at least he has his best friend.
Dear George, the next letter reads, except there’s a little heart penciled in next to George’s name this time.
I hope you’re having a nice morning! On my way home yesterday, I saw this patch of flowers sprouting out by a riverbank and it made me think about you. I don’t know why, exactly, but they were pretty and colourful and calmed me down in a weird way so that reminded me of you. Except for the fact that you actually don’t calm me down sometimes. Not in a bad way! I just mean that I get nervous around you sometimes, George. Like my heart is beating out of my chest.
Sometimes I’m afraid that you might notice. But it seems like you never really do. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I hope it’s a good thing. Yeah. Okay. This letter has gotten away from me now, I think.
Anyways. Another thing that I admire about you: you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever seen, George. Seriously. Like, the kind of smart that’s going to get you places in the future. I hope you know that about yourself.
Your secret admirer :)
George barely registers what he’s doing before he’s reaching into his locker for a scrap piece of paper and a pencil. Three days in a row he’s gotten a letter. Whoever this is, it doesn’t feel like a prank anymore.
His handwriting comes out shaky as he scribbles out his words on top of a torn piece of lined paper.
Hi,
I’m not really sure what to write here so I guess I’ll just get straight to the point: who are you? I really appreciate all the letters and nice things and all that, but you keep talking like we know each other. Do we know each other?
George
He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous as he folds up the paper and slips it in the crack beneath his locker door. The corner of the page juts out a bit — just enough for his secret admirer to notice it when they come to deliver the next letter tomorrow morning.
George’s lungs feel faint as he grabs his books, shuts his locker closed, and heads off to class.
The letter is gone the next day, replaced with another green envelope and another gold star. George is starting to wonder how many of these his secret admirer has.
Dear George,
Okay. Come on. You can’t just ask who I am or if we know each other, because that ruins the whole point of having a secret admirer! Isn’t it much more fun for you and much less embarrassing for me this way?
Seriously. I’m still nervous to tell you that I like you, and it’s literally been years. You don’t know what you do to my poor, poor little stupidly-in-love heart.
Also, you writing back totally ruins all my romantic plans. I had plans, George. I could've been serenading you in the hallway and revealing my true identity today for all you know…
Another thing I admire about you again: you’re very confident in yourself. Like how you got the idea to write me back, or the way that you walk through the halls or go into every test completely sure of yourself. That’s confidence to me.
Yours in love letter writing and other shenanigans,
Your secret admirer
George can barely hold himself back before he’s scribbling back another response.
Dear “my secret admirer”,
Not getting to know anything about you is totally unfair, though. You know everything about me. I’m sure you can tell me one thing about yourself. You say that you’ve liked me for years, but that sounds a little bit crazy. There’s no way that I wouldn’t have noticed, right?
I find it hard to believe that you would serenade me, but whatever you say.
Thank you? For the compliment?
George
He’s never been really good at compliments, especially not when they’re from some mystery person. But he folds his response up anyways, sticks it in at the bottom of his locker, and then heads off to class just like yesterday.
Strangely, though, now that he’s writing back — it doesn’t seem like some sick prank anymore. Instead, as he’s sliding into his seat next to Dream in chemistry, his heart thrums against his chest the entire time.
Dear George,
I don’t know why you need to put quotations around “my secret admirer”, but okay. I’ll tell you two things about me actually: I’m a senior like you, but I’ve told you that already, and I’m a guy. Happy?
Also, you’d be more surprised than you’d think. Sometimes the truth can be sitting right in front of you and you wouldn’t notice.
Okay, you’re right. Maybe I wouldn’t, because that’d be seriously embarrassing for me if you didn’t like me back, but it’s the thought that counts.
Thing I admire about you: your talent for soccer. I’ve been to a few of your games and you’re insanely talented. I hope you know that, seriously. How was practice yesterday?
Yours in unprompted compliments,
Your secret admirer
Dear secret admirer (see, no quotes this time),
That doesn’t exactly narrow it down. How am I supposed to find who you are if you won’t give me any specifics? There’s a million guys in our grade.
You sound very ominous, secret admirer. It’s spooky. And maybe I would like you back if you told me who you were. You never know. Also, I'm still not fully convinced that this isn’t some crazy prank that my friends are pulling on me, but I’ll take your word for it for now.
Practice was really good yesterday. I was exhausted by the time it was over so I collapsed in bed by the time I finished showering. How do you know I had soccer practice, though? Hmm…
George
Dear George,
What if I don’t want you to find me just yet?
I know I sound ominous. It’s a talent. And maybe you would like me back, but don’t give me false hope, please. I’m kind of in love with you and have been for years, so it’d suck to be rejected like that. I promise this isn’t a prank. I’d be a shitty guy if I did that, and I’m not a shitty guy (at least I don’t think I am).
Haha. Very funny. I see what you’re getting at. No, I’m not one of the guys on your soccer team. Not quite, at least. I do play a sport at school, but I’m not a soccer guy. So there’s your hint of who I am for the day.
Thing I admire about you: I wish you knew how much you brighten my day every time you look in my direction. It’s like magic. You make me feel better, all warm and soft inside like that. Yeah. I really, really like you. Promise.
Yours in hiding behind paper love confessions,
Your secret admirer
Dear secret admirer,
If you didn’t want me to find you yet, I don’t know what I’d say. I’m curious by nature, mystery guy. I’ll figure out who you are someday >:)
Okay. I won’t. And I sort of trust you now, I think. I believe you. I don’t think most shitty guys leave sappy love notes in other people’s lockers.
So you’re on one of the sports teams at school… that actually narrows it down quite a bit. Interesting. I’m getting one step closer, and it feels scary but exciting at the same time
You always leave me off with one thing you admire about me, so I thought I’d do one for you: you’re incredibly persistent, but like, in an endearing way. I don’t know. I like it.
I wanted to ask, though. What is it that you like about me so much? Why me out of every other guy at school?
George
Dear George,
That’s an easy question.
You’re smart with how good you are at school and how quickly you solve problems. You’re hard working because you’re always working on a cool new project or practicing soccer. You’re nice and sweet and funny and gorgeous. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t like you. Do I need to keep going?
Anyways, about the other parts of your letter: yeah, I play sports at school. Have fun with that >:) I just hope that if/when you actually find out who I am, you won’t be creeped out. I’d hate for that to happen.
You’re complimenting me now? I thought that was my job :( But still, thank you. Very very flattering. I blushed.
Thing I admire about you: too many to choose from today. Ask me again tomorrow.
Yours in “sappy love notes”,
Your secret admirer
George responds to each morning’s letters like clockwork. One day he’s grinning like an idiot at the stupid jokes pencilled in on the paper in careful strokes, and the next, he’s pressing his knuckles to his cheeks so the blush that’s blossomed over his face isn’t too visible. The letters get him like that, sometimes. It’s terribly embarrassing. George does his best to hide the warmth unfurling in his chest every time he picks up a new letter, but it doesn’t exactly work.
“Why do you look so happy?” Sapnap whispers to him one day in calculus.
The truth is that George is still riding the wave of excitement from that morning’s letter — You’re the greatest person I’ve ever met, George. I mean that, it had read — but he’s not going to say that, not when he’s sure Sapnap’s going to make fun of him for it.
George shrugs. “I just got a good grade on the chemistry test.”
“You’re a shit liar,” Sapnap says, kicking George in the ankle from under their desk. His face pulls into something teasing. “It’s because of the letters.”
George groans and buries his head into the table. “Stop.”
“So you admit it,” Sapnap says. “You like them.”
“I don’t,” George retorts. “It’s just nice to have someone be nice to me like that.”
“Dream’s nice to you like that.”
George frowns. “Yeah, but not like that. We’re friends.”
Insistence works its way into Sapnap’s tone. “He doesn’t drive me to school every day. Or let me sleep over at his house. Or doodle stuff on my paper when I’m not looking.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Sapnap slinks back into his chair. “People trust me with the passwords to their phones,” he says, grinning. “They shouldn’t.”
“Okay,” George says, slowly so as to not trip over his words, “but it doesn’t mean anything.”
Sapnap squeezes his eyes shut and flings his hands over his face. “You’re hopeless.”
“Morning,” Dream says, grinning. “You look excited to get to school today.”
The sun is halfway up the sky as George plops down in Dream’s passenger seat, just like he’s done every school day for the past month. He’s a little bit exhausted from staying up late last night, sorting through all the letters he’s received and carefully slotting them in his desk drawer, but his restless energy’s still pouring out of him in waves. Another day means another letter in his locker.
But Dream doesn’t know that, so George just says, “Because of your big game tonight. Are you ready?”
“I hope so,” Dream tells him, staring straight at the traffic lights ahead. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist. “I’m nervous. I feel sick.”
“Don’t be nervous,” George says, and Dream turns his head to look at him at a red light. “You’re gonna win, I bet.”
Dream sends him a tight-lipped smile and doesn’t reply. George drums his fingers on his lap and wonders if there’s something Dream isn’t telling him.
The letter is different today.
There’s something else inside the envelope, something poking out that George can see through the paper, and his breath is caught in his throat as he slips his fingernail underneath the sticker. The letter comes out first — it’s shorter this time, only a few sentences compared to the long paragraphs George usually receives.
Dear George,
I made this for you last night! I really hope you like it. The string is from my mom’s sewing kit.
Thing I admire about you: how you never fail to light up every room you walk into.
I hope you’ll be there at the game tonight :)
Yours in braided bracelets,
Your secret admirer
Sure enough, there’s a braided bracelet inside of the envelope, blue and white string tied together in loops.
George freezes.
He knows this bracelet. He’s seen it before, seen it every day this month, just in striking green instead of cobalt blue. It’s been sitting on Dream’s wrist, brushing against his steering wheel every morning on the way to school.
Everything makes sense now. His secret admirer gets to school early to put the letters in his locker; Dream gets to school early for football practice. His secret admirer said George reminds him of flowers; Dream doodles flowers on George’s homework. They’re both senior guys, they both play sports at school, they both loop their Ys and flatten their Rs in the same way when they write, and fuck.
George is so, so absolutely screwed and ecstatic at the same time.
A tiny part of him always hoped that it was Dream. Sapnap had a point that day, George thinks, because he and Dream have been drifting over the edge of friendship for years. Dream’s the kind of guy who offers George his jacket when he’s cold, who lets George steal food off of his plate when they go out to eat.
George always thought that the ridiculous idea of Dream liking him was almost too good to be true.
His hands are shaking too much to write out another response, but he shoves the bracelet into his pocket and slips the letter into his backpack. The halls feel like they’re closing in on him as he walks towards chemistry class with his mind whirling.
Dream’s already sitting at the lab bench when he gets inside, and George just about grabs him by the arm and drags him out to the hall. He’s looking absolutely confused, hair falling in front of his face and nose scrunched up.
“What are you doing—”
“You’ve been sending me letters,” George says, a little louder than intended. Dream’s mouth stutters.
“What?”
“It’s you,” George repeats. “It’s your handwriting on the letters.”
Dream stands there, staring down at him, until something finally slots into place within his mind. His face stretches from shock to a wide, blinding grin. “You figured it out?” he asks, nearly breathless.
“It wasn’t exactly difficult,” George tells him, and his heart’s beating out of his chest because a part of him still can’t really believe it. The bell rings, but neither of them seem to care. “Everything made sense. And the bracelet.” He takes it out of his pocket and tilts his head. “Did you really think I wasn’t going to figure it out?”
“I dunno.” Dream runs a shaky hand through his hair. His eyes are bright beneath the fluorescents above. “I mean, I was hoping you would at some point, but…”
“Did you mean it? What you wrote?”
“Of course I meant it,” Dream says, soft and genuine. “I meant all of it, George. Seriously. I’ve liked you for so long. I just — I had to write my feelings down instead of saying them out loud.”
George grins at the warmth that’s settled in his face. “You’re an idiot. You could’ve just told me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” George says, reaching out to push him in the shoulder. “I like you too.”
Something scary and new yet soothingly familiar rushes through George’s skin. Dream reaches down to take his hand, loops the braided bracelet around his wrist, and George thinks that he’s never seen Dream look happier.
Dream wins his football game by a landslide, because of course he does. The stands are roaring as George stumbles down to the sidelines and pushes past the crowd. Dream must see him from across the field, because he’s tearing off his helmet and looking absolutely golden underneath the field floodlights.
It’s all too easy for George to scale the fence and for Dream to pull him in a searing hug, limbs muddy and sweaty, but it’s nice. He’s got his arms wrapped tight around George’s chest. George digs his face into the crook of Dream’s neck and thinks that maybe senior year is going to go better than he thought.
“You won,” George laughs into Dream’s skin.
Dream pulls away first. His hair’s all sticky and plastered to his forehead and his cheeks are flushed from overexertion, but despite it all, George thinks that he’s heart-twistingly beautiful. “I won,” Dream says, grinning, and then he’s ducking down to press his lips to the side of George’s face.
George pouts. “Give me a real one,” he says.
When their lips press together, gentle and young and clumsy and sweet, George smiles into it and cradles Dream’s face on either side. Boys who play football and write him cheesy love confessions are going to be the death of him, George thinks.