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As she neared her locker, Sarada noticed something out of place. A folded piece of paper, tucked into the corner of the top shelf. It was just lying there, as if someone had carelessly tossed it aside. Curiosity piqued, Sarada walked over and pulled it out.
The envelope was neatly sealed with a red wax mark. It wasn’t something she recognized, but the carefully scripted handwriting on the front caught her attention.
“To the one who holds my heart.”
A flicker of surprise ran through Sarada. She didn’t immediately open it, as a part of her felt it wasn’t meant for her eyes. But the temptation to know grew too strong. She carefully pried open the wax seal, unrolling the letter. As she began to read, her eyes widened.
“My dearest,
There are no words that can truly express how my heart beats only for you. The quiet moments we’ve shared, the way you look at the world… You are a mystery I long to unravel. I’ve kept this secret close, hidden beneath a mask of indifference, but my feelings for you are undeniable. It is you, only you, who makes my heart race, and I can no longer stay silent.
Yours, always.”
Sarada had read the letter so many times that the ink seemed to be imprinted in her brain. Every time she read it, a feeling of confusion and longing filled her chest. She couldn’t stop thinking about who could have written it. Who in her life could have been the one to express such deep feelings for her?
She’d tried to figure it out on her own, but it only left her more frustrated. So, after days of pondering, Sarada decided to seek help. But not from everyone—only from Chocho Akimichi, her closest friend, the one who was always ready to help with matters of the heart, no matter how complicated.
Sarada sat in the academy courtyard, waiting for Chocho to arrive. She glanced down at the letter she had kept hidden inside her bag, her heart racing as she thought about how to begin explaining this mystery. Chocho finally appeared, her usual bright smile on her face, her bag slung casually over her shoulder.
“Hey, Sarada! What’s up?” Chocho greeted with her trademark enthusiasm.
“Chocho,” Sarada said, her voice unusually serious. “I need your help with something… important.”
Chocho’s expression immediately softened. “Of course, what’s going on?”
Sarada hesitated for a moment, then pulled the letter out of her bag, placing it in front of her friend. “I found this letter. I don’t know who wrote it, but I need to find out.”
Chocho’s eyes widened in surprise as she read the contents of the letter. “Whoa, this is intense,” she murmured, looking up at Sarada with a mix of curiosity and excitement. “So, you’ve got a secret admirer, huh?”
“I don’t know if it’s admiration, exactly,” Sarada said, feeling her cheeks heat up slightly. “But it’s definitely something. I don’t even know if it’s real. It could just be a joke.”
Chocho sat down beside her, the gears in her head already turning. “Well, we need to figure out who wrote it, then. But we can’t just ask people outright. We’ll need to be subtle.”
Sarada nodded. She knew Chocho would have a good idea of how to go about it. “I need to know. It’s been bothering me, and I can’t focus on anything else.”
“You’re right,” Chocho said, her voice suddenly serious. “But we have to be careful. Whoever wrote this letter might be feeling vulnerable, and we don’t want to embarrass them. I’ll help you figure it out.”
Chocho’s plan was simple. They would begin by observing their friends and classmates closely, looking for any signs or clues. It wasn’t about outright questioning people—rather, they would take note of anyone acting strange, anyone who might show signs of having feelings for Sarada. As the days went on, they both kept a keen eye on everyone, but no one seemed to stand out.
Day 1: They started with Shikadai Nara, Sarada’s classmate, who had always been observant and calm. He wasn’t one to jump to conclusions and rarely expressed his feelings, but Sarada noticed he was often quiet and a little too contemplative whenever the topic of the letter came up in casual conversation.
“What do you think, Shikadai?” Sarada had asked one day, casually bringing up the subject.
Shikadai had looked at her, his expression unreadable. “I think it’s none of my business,” he replied simply. But there was a hint of something in his eyes, like he knew more than he let on.
Sarada couldn’t shake the feeling that Shikadai knew something. She was about to press him further, but Chocho had subtly nudged her to drop it. No need to push—there was something almost… off about Shikadai’s reaction. It didn’t make sense, but Sarada couldn’t bring herself to ask him directly.
Day 2: They turned their attention to Mitsuki, a calm and mysterious figure. He was always observing, but in a quiet way, and Sarada had a feeling he might know something as well. However, after a brief conversation about the letter, Mitsuki’s neutral expression didn’t change.
“It’s not something I would involve myself in,” Mitsuki had said softly, his eyes distant.
That only added to the growing mystery. If Mitsuki didn’t know anything, then who could it be?
It was on Day 3 when the answer finally came into focus, though not in the way Sarada had imagined. Chocho had been particularly insistent that Sarada pay attention to Boruto Uzumaki—the ever-energetic and mischievous friend who had been oddly quiet lately. Sarada had dismissed the idea at first. Boruto was always the prankster. He would never write something so serious.
But then, on this particular day, Sarada noticed something. Boruto was avoiding her. He would glance in her direction and then quickly look away, his usual brash energy replaced with something else—something softer, something more nervous.
And then, during their training session, it happened.
Sarada had been practicing her Chidori when she noticed Boruto watching her from the sidelines, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met, and for a split second, Sarada saw something she had never seen in Boruto before: vulnerability.
She felt her heart skip a beat. Could it be… him? Had Boruto written the letter?
Boruto immediately turned and ran off, leaving the others behind, his footsteps quick and light. Sarada’s heart raced. This wasn’t just coincidence anymore. She had to know. She had to confront him.
Later that evening, Sarada found Boruto sitting alone by the training grounds, his back turned to her. She walked toward him, her voice soft yet determined.
“Boruto.”
He didn’t respond, but she could see his shoulders tense.
“Boruto, did you write the letter?” Sarada asked, her voice almost a whisper.
Boruto’s body went rigid, and he didn’t turn around. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his usual cocky tone replaced by something less confident.
Sarada’s chest tightened. “I know it was you. You’re the only one who could have written it. Why didn’t you just tell me?”
For a moment, Boruto stayed silent, his fists clenched. Then, he turned around slowly, his eyes meeting hers. His expression was conflicted—regretful, but also hopeful.
“I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to mess things up, Sarada. I’ve always joked around, but this—this is real. I don’t know how to do this, how to tell you… But I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”
Sarada felt a mixture of emotions flood her heart. “Why didn’t you just talk to me about it?”
Boruto’s eyes softened. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I thought maybe if I kept it hidden, things would stay normal… but they haven’t, have they?”
The weight of the moment crashed down on Sarada. She had spent so long wondering, searching for answers, and now, here they were, facing the truth. Boruto, the prankster, the one who had always made her laugh, was the one who had written the letter. And in that moment, Sarada realized something else too—she hadn’t just been curious. She had been feeling something too.
“I was afraid of the same thing,” Sarada confessed, her voice quiet. “Afraid that things would change, that our friendship would change…”
Boruto’s face softened, a hesitant smile playing at the corners of his lips. “So… what now?”
Sarada felt a weight lifting off her shoulders. The confusion was gone. The mystery was solved. And in that moment, she realized that she didn’t want things to go back to the way they were.
The next day, Sarada sat in her room, the cool breeze from the open window ruffling her hair as she stared at a blank piece of paper. Her heart was still racing, but now it was different—more excited, more hopeful.
She picked up her pen and began to write:
“Boruto,
I’ve spent so many days wondering who wrote the letter and why I couldn’t figure it out. But when you ran, when you turned away, I knew it was you. Maybe I was scared too. Scared that something would change between us, scared that the truth would ruin everything. But now, I know it was worth it.
I don’t know what happens next, but I’m glad you wrote that letter. I’m glad it was you.
Yours, always,
Sarada.”
She folded the letter carefully, sealing it with a small smile. Sarada felt lighter, a sense of peace finally settling within her. It wasn’t just about the letter anymore. It was about taking a chance.
And she was ready to take it.