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The late afternoon sun poured through the high arched windows of the Bangkok University gymnasium, painting the polished hardwood court in a warm, honey-gold light. Peemwasu wiped the sweat off his forehead with the hem of his jersey, his breathing heavy after two brutal hours of shooting drills. The campus was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of a bassline thumping from the dance studio across the open courtyard.
Peem unzipped his gym bag to reach for his water bottle, but his fingers brushed against a piece of paper instead. Tucked right between his knee pads was a neatly folded piece of grid paper alongside a cold bottle of electrolyte drink. He unfolded it carefully, reading the small, meticulous handwriting: “Don't skip breakfast just because morning drills ran late today. You played well.”
Peem glanced around the empty bench area, utterly confused. He assumed it was just another casual fan gesture, but there was no name or social media handle signed—just the neat, quiet ink. He uncapped the drink, took a long sip, and mindlessly tucked the note into a side pocket.
By midterms, the second letter arrived. Peem had escaped to his hidden, usual quiet corner in the BU central library. As he reached under the wooden desk to plug in his laptop charger, a yellow sticky note fluttered down onto his lap.
“You look exhausted when you stare at those macroeconomics slides. Take a 15-minute nap, the AC in this corner isn't as harsh.”
Peem snapped his head up, scanning the quiet aisles of books. Nobody was there. He saved the second note alongside the first, a tiny spark of curiosity finally starting to flicker in his chest. Who was keeping track of him like this?
The third note slipped out of his duffle bag right after the Freshy Week friendly games: “Congratulations on winning the inter-university friendly. You always look happiest when you're leading the fast break.”
"Another one?" Thai leaned over Peem's shoulder, a smirking Copper right behind him as Peem pulled the handwritten postcard out of his bag. Thai snatched the post-game snack left beside it before Peem could stop him. "Seriously, Peem? You get dozens of gift boxes every week from fans, but you've been staring at these plain little notes like they're national treasure."
"Give that back, Thai," Peem muttered, snatching the snack back and carefully sliding the note into the inner pocket of his bag.
Copper wheezed, slinging an arm over Thai’s shoulder. "No, but Thai's right! The girl or guy who's writing these really knows your schedule. It's almost impressive. You don't even open the cards from the cheerleaders, but this ghost writer gets a whole private pouch in your backpack?"
Peem rolled his eyes, shoving both of his teammates away, though a quiet warmth bloomed in his chest. He stood up and immediately scanned the crowded exit doors, trying to spot anyone suspicious—but the lobby was a sea of unfamiliar faces. He couldn't catch who left it.
It was only by the fourth note that the pieces began to click together. Trapped in the sports equipment room during a sudden downpour, a soft thump against the door made him jump. A yellow envelope rested on the floor beside a sturdy umbrella.
“I left an umbrella leaning against the rack outside. Please don't walk to the gym in the rain, you'll catch a cold before finals.”
Peem picked up the umbrella, catching the faint, comforting scent of sweet vanilla and fabric softener on the handle. As he walked out into the hallway, he caught the briefest glimpse of a black hoodie disappearing around the corner of the building. His eyes widened—he had seen that exact hoodie earlier that morning. Through the glass panel of the central library, he remembered seeing a boy from the dance team wearing it while taking a break with his friend.
Suddenly, Peem looked down at the courtyard plaza. Below, Heart was gesturing dramatically, while Jung leaned against the railing, adjusting his dark hair. As if sensing Peem's gaze, Jungt looked up. Their eyes met across the distance for a split second before Jung quickly turned away, coughing nervously into his elbow. Peem’s heart gave an unfamiliar, sudden thud. He's always been right there, Peem realized, the memory of seeing Jung near the library and outside the gym courts finally locking into place.
Then came the day of the championship finals.
The main arena was deafening, packed to the brim with screaming students. But when Peem walked up to his courtside bench during warm-ups, his eyes fell on a sleek white card sitting on top of his folded jersey.
“This is my last letter. You've worked harder than anyone else all semester. Go take the trophy home. I'll be watching from the stands.”
Last letter. The words hit Peem like a physical blow. Panic instantly eclipsed his pre-game adrenaline. His eyes swept wildly across the crowded bleachers until his gaze locked onto the third row. There sat Jung, holding a camera. Jung froze, ducking his head quickly behind his lens, but Peem had already seen the bright red flush creeping up his neck. Peem gripped the note tight. Not if I have anything to say about it.
Bangkok University won the championship by four points.
An hour after the game, the dance studio was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the evening mirrors. Jung was packing up his gear, completely exhausted. Heart was leaning against the mirror, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
"I'm heading out first, Jung," Heart said, waving a hand. "Don't stay too late, okay?"
"Yeah, see you tomorrow," Jung murmured softly.
Once Heart walked out, Jung reached into his gym bag to zip it up. But as his fingers brushed inside the front pocket, he felt a smooth, heavy black envelope that definitely hadn't been there before. Someone must have slipped it in when Jung wasn't looking during rehearsals.
With trembling hands, Jung pulled out the envelope and unfolded the crisp paper inside:
“To the guy from the dance team who thinks he's sneaky:
You wrote 5 letters telling me to eat, rest, stay out of the rain, and win. It took me a while to realize it, but once I finally noticed you, my eyes searched for you every single time after.
If this was your last letter, then this is my first. I'm waiting outside your studio right now. Walk home with me tonight, Jung. Let me finally get to know the person behind the notes.”
A deep, vivid blush rushed up Jung’s neck, burning his cheeks bright crimson. His heart hammered against his ribs as he shoved his sneakers into his bag, zipped it up with frantic hands, and practically ran to the studio door.
He pushed the heavy door open.
Leaning against the hallway wall with his hands casually shoved into his jacket pockets was Peemwasu. The star shooting guard pushed off the wall, a soft, lopsided smirk playing on his lips as his eyes met Jung's flushed face.
"You took your time," Peem said softly, his voice low and warm in the quiet corridor.
Jung held the black letter tightly against his chest, biting his lower lip. "You... you knew?"
"I started noticing you," Peem replied, stepping forward and naturally reaching down to gently take Jung's heavy gym bag from his hand, slinging it over his own shoulder. "Come on. Let's walk."
They stepped out into the cool evening air of the BU campus, walking side by side under the amber streetlights. The initial awkwardness quickly melted away into quiet giggles and soft confessions. Peem teases Jung about his secret stealth tactics, and Jung shyly explains why he was always too nervous to hand the notes over in person. For the first time all semester, there were no anonymous letters left behind, just the quiet rhythm of their steps matching together as they walked home into the night.