Work Text:
I don’t agree with what you had said in Mr Best’s class. If we assume that there are inherently good and bad people, doesn't that diminish the value of change?
PS. Sorry I’m saying this through a note. To be honest, you kind of intimidate me.
It would be easier to pinpoint the potential secret messenger if Riley talked to anyone in Mr Best’s class. Or any other class for that matter. What could possibly be intimidating about them anyway? Do they look like a person who would jump someone's bones for having a different opinion? Shouldn't all the pride pins on their backpack speak for themselves?
They had half a mind to crumble the note and throw it in the trash. Especially because of how irritating it was to not be able to respond to the poised question. The asker left no means of communication. Way to mess with someone's head. And perhaps they succeeded, because the note ended up folded and hidden in between pages of their notebook.
Riley had been mulling the question over in their head until the next day. Until Mr Best’s class came again. The second there was an opening to ask questions, they spoke up.
“I would like to go back to yesterday's topic.”
“Why, of course. Is there anything in particular you wanted to ask about?”
“I wanted to correct what I said. I believe there are good people who were conditioned to behave badly, as well as bad people conditioned to behave well. Behaviour can be corrected. Changed. But not one’s inherent nature.”
Self-satisfied, they gave their professor a short smile as he expanded on their answer, engaging others in the discussion. They could finally close the topic in their mind, hoping the messenger was there to receive their answer.
And they were, if the new note slipped into their locker, just like the previous one, was any tell.
I see your point, but I still disagree. It makes change superficial. As if one could train a person to behave, but couldn't make them understand values on a deeper level.
PS. My locker number is 57.
Riley couldn't help but chuckle at the post scriptum. What kind of person asked to communicate by slipping notes into each other's lockers instead of exchanging literally any social media accounts. Besides, if Riley really wanted to, they could easily ask around and find out who the locker belonged to. They couldn't decide yet whether the messenger was the smartest or the dumbest person they had the pleasure corresponding with.
Well… The smart part was undeniable, truth be told, and it was what made Riley write their response on a piece of paper and slip it into locker number 57.
The note they found in their own locker the next morning ended with:
PS. Your handwriting is very pretty.
Riley wondered briefly and amusedly if all of the person’s notes would end with a post scriptum.
They did.
Day after day, and made coming to class that much better. And even if they mostly revolved around the topics of their English class, the little finishing sentences made them feel personal. So Riley eventually started adding them as well. Which caused the singular PS to turn into PPS, PPPS, and so on… The messenger turned out to be quite a talker. And the previously small pieces of paper eventually became full A4 pages.
Philosophy and psychology are important to me. Understanding myself and other people, and the world around us. Why are we the way we are? What lenses are there through which we can view what surrounds us?
Something about that particular fragment made their heart surge with passion, as if feeding off the emotion of the sender. And it gave them the inexplicable urge to…
We may not share the same opinions, but I think we share similar values. I would like to get to know you better. In person. Coffee?
It felt ridiculous to be nervous about asking someone to talk. But they were. Knowing what lengths their correspondent went to to avoid speaking to them face to face.
The notes became the highlight of their day. They couldn't help but wonder who was the person on the other end. How passionate they sounded when they actually spoke out loud. If the two of them would get along just as well without the invisible barrier between them. If they could be friends.
And if the butterflies they occasionally got could be justified in any way. Because the longer it went on, the stupider they felt catching feelings for pieces of paper.
Riley had to still themselves with a few deep breaths before opening their locker on Monday morning.
Needlessly, as they found nothing inside.
Nor the day after. Or any of the three following days.
Opening it on Friday, and still finding nothing, felt incredibly bitter. A whole week without a response. Of course it was possible that the person simply had gone on vacation or gotten sick. And even if they read the message and decided to cut ties with them, Riley blamed only them for their decision.
A tap on their shoulder shook them out of their own head. When they turned around, they recognised the person before them as someone from their class. They were slightly shorter than Riley, with round glasses and dark hair with a red ribbon braided into them. The signature hairstyle made them easy to remember.
Riley cocked an eyebrow, but the person seemed frozen mid-stutter.
“Sorry, can I… help you?”
They squeaked, as if shaken out of their freeze state, and words spilled out of them in an instant.
“I’m sorry I took so long! I tried so many times but I just- I couldn't! And I didn't know what to say! And I don't like coffee! I’m sorry! Can we get tea instead? Do you still want to? I’m sorry, I’ll understand if you don't–”
It was Riley’s turn to stand frozen. Them. It was them. Putting a face to all of those papers had their heart in their throat. It was real. They were actually real. And so, so different from the way they write. Although, Riley already suspected that they might be a tad shy in person.
“I’d love to get tea with you,” they cut their ramble. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
In response they got the wobbliest smile they had ever seen.
They offered their hand with a smile of their own.
“Riley.”
When the delicate hand met theirs, the butterflies for once felt justified.
“Zoey.”