Part 1You Confessed to the Courier

I had a pen pal for three years. We exchanged letters almost daily, pouring out our thoughts on heavy cardstock, yet we had never once met in person.

My best friend, Carrie, was the one who insisted on keeping it that way.

"Never meeting is proof that you two are true soulmates," she used to say, tucking another sealed envelope into her canvas tote. "It keeps it pure. Sacred."

So, for three years of high school, Carrie served as our secret courier. She carried our letters between campuses, slipping them into lockers and discreet drop-boxes, an invisible bridge between two strangers.

Until the afternoon of graduation.

Right in front of the entire senior class, under the blazing June sun on the school quad, the class valedictorian—a wealthy, devastatingly handsome golden boy named Chase—stepped forward and handed a massive bouquet of crimson roses straight to Carrie.

At that exact second, translucent lines of glowing text flickered across the lower rim of my vision, scrolling like a phantom livestream chat bleeding into reality:

"What the hell! The male lead has the wrong girl! He thinks the courier is the one who wrote the letters!"

"He finally worked up the courage to confess, and he picks the wrong person? I'm sobbing!"

"June, step up and say something! Tell him YOU wrote those letters!"

In my past life, I had done exactly what those floating voices commanded. I pulled Chase aside behind the bleachers and laid out the truth. I cleared up the misunderstanding.

The very next morning, he made our relationship official for the whole school to see.

Carrie was utterly humiliated. Walking home in a daze of heartbreak and public shame, she stepped blindly into an intersection and was killed by a speeding truck.

And Chase spent the rest of his life making me pay for her death.

He trapped me in his suffocating orbit, inventing endless ways to demean, humiliate, and torment me behind closed doors. Only then did the bitter truth reveal itself: the very first day Chase spotted Carrie dropping off an envelope at his locker, he had fallen in love with her on sight.

In this life, standing at the edge of the manicured lawn, I watched Carrie cradle that lavish bouquet of roses.

I stayed buried in the crowd, clapping along with the rest of the cheering seniors.

"Say yes!" I shouted into the warm air, smiling until my cheeks ached. "Say yes!"

* * *

On the walk back to our dorms, Carrie held the bouquet of roses close against her chest.

Her eyes were dazzlingly bright, her cheeks flushed a deep, breathless pink. Her lips parted slightly, trembling as if she wanted to say something monumental, but in the end, she only reached out and grabbed my hand.

Her palm was slick with sweat, damp and burning hot.

"June..."

Her voice broke on the syllable, the rest of the sentence catching in her throat.

I squeezed her fingers gently and offered a warm, easy smile. "Congratulations, Carrie. You deserve it."

Her lower lashes instantly shimmered with tears.

Almost overnight, Chase’s courtship kicked into overdrive.

It was a relentless, dizzying spectacle: the newest flagship smartphones, limited-edition designer handbags, runway pieces delivered directly from luxury boutiques, and even an unlimited black credit card tossed onto her vanity like an afterthought.

The gifts poured into Carrie’s hands in an unbroken stream.

The private couriers delivering the boxes always smiled deferentially: "Mr. Bradford said these are all for his future wife. If you don't care for the color, we'll replace the entire collection immediately."

Carrie stared at the dazzling array of wealth, her fingertips hovering over the buttery leather of a luxury tote, only to jerk her hand back as if the calfskin had scorched her.

"Why me?" she murmured, her brow furrowing. Beneath the giddy thrill of being chosen, a deep, gnawing dread lingered in her eyes. "I’ve never even spoken a full sentence to Chase. We don't share classes. This confession came out of nowhere... June, do you think there's been some kind of mistake?"

Of course there was. In my past life, I had harbored the exact same doubts.

Guided by the frantic floating words, I had cornered Chase in private. I had told him that I was the one behind the three years of correspondence. I told him Carrie was merely the messenger. I even recited the exact phrase Carrie had once fed me:

"Never meeting is proof that we are soulmates. It makes it sacred."

He had frozen, the color draining from his face before an empty mask settled in. "So... it was you all along."

I had nodded through happy tears, too blinded by romantic relief to register the faint shadow of profound disappointment flickering in the depths of his eyes.

The next morning, the entire campus buzzed with the news that I was Chase’s new girlfriend.

Carrie became the punchline of every hallway whisper. Three days later, her spirit broken, she walked into traffic.

From that day on, Chase looked at me with pure, unadulterated venom. He kept me locked in his life like an ornament, tearing down my dignity piece by piece, endlessly demanding why I had ever opened my mouth.

"Why did you have to run to me that day?"

"Carrie died because of your pathetic vanity."

"The biggest regret of my life was believing your words and betraying Carrie."

I lowered my gaze, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Carrie’s ear.

"Maybe Chase caught sight of you on campus somewhere and fell for you," I said softly.

The moment the words left my mouth, translucent text cascaded furiously across my sightline:

"Why is the female lead acting like this?! Doesn't she want to be with him?!"

"No, please! Don't let my endgame ship sink!"

Carrie looked up at me, bewildered.

"You’re beautiful, Carrie, and you have a gentle heart," I said, looking right through the glowing pixels hanging in the air. I gave her an encouraging nod. "It’s completely normal for someone to have a quiet crush on you. Maybe he’s been watching you for a long time and only found the courage to speak up once school ended."

A deeper crimson crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. Her fingers nervously worried the hem of her cardigan. "Stop it. I'm not that special."

"Yes, you are," I replied, keeping my tone light, affectionate, and grounded in sisterly warmth. "You're one of the sweetest, loveliest people I know. Chase falling for you makes all the sense in the world."

She tapped my arm in mock protest, though her hand had no weight behind it. The corners of her mouth curved upward, helpless against the swell of joy.

Whatever hesitation had held her back was slowly swallowed by a tide of romantic anticipation.