You 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!" 01 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. 02 The weeks that followed were an extravagant whirlwind. Chase’s pursuit never paused for breath. One day it was VIP box seats to sold-out arena concerts; the next, reservations at exclusive, impossible-to-book rooftop restaurants. He drove Carrie out to scenic coastal lookouts in his sleek silver sports car and took her to private movie screenings. Across social circles, the legend grew: Chase, the untouchable prep-school golden boy, had harbored a secret, burning crush on Carrie for years and had finally claimed his prize upon graduation. Countless girls envied her good fortune. And when the floating lines of text realized I had no intention of interfering, they gradually thinned, eventually dissolving into nothingness. One muggy afternoon, Carrie’s mother came to my door. "June, honey, I hope I'm not bothering you," she said softly, holding out an insulated thermos with a tentative, slightly apologetic smile. "I made some iced sweet bean soup. It’s so hot outside; thought this might cool you down." "Thank you, Mrs. Clark," I said, taking the thermos. She rubbed her weathered hands together, her gaze scanning my face, hesitant, caught on words she didn't know how to frame. "Did you want to ask me something?" A breath of relief slipped past her lips. "June... Carrie tells me there’s a boy from your school courting her. Pretty aggressively, too." I nodded. "Yes. He confessed to her in front of everyone on graduation day." A ripple of worry creased her forehead. "I've seen the things he sends over. Designer clothes, expensive jewelry... It makes my stomach knot up. I don't feel easy about it. Do you know him well? What kind of boy is he really?" I paused for a long second, then shook my head. "I don't know him personally. But everyone knows his reputation." "He comes from old money. His parents run major investment firms. He’s brilliant, too—valedictorian, top test scores in the state. He'll have his pick of Ivy League schools." Her eyes flickered with fleeting pride, but the shadow returned twice as heavy. "A boy that wealthy and accomplished... he must have a trail of girls behind him. Could he really be serious about my Carrie?" "Serious." A flash of my previous life sliced through my memory. The older, untouchable Chase, drowning in business triumphs, had never lacked beautiful women throwing themselves at his feet. Yet his expression had always remained carved from granite, frost coating every word as he shut everyone out. He never spared those socialites a second glance. He had reserved all of his ruthless passion and unwavering devotion for torturing me—his twisted way of maintaining a lifelong monument to Carrie’s memory. "In all three years of high school, he never dated anyone," I told her, my voice level and quiet. "Devoted... that's good. That's very good," Carrie’s mother muttered, the knot between her brows finally loosening into a genuine, tired smile. "As long as he’s decent and treats Carrie with respect, that’s all that matters." She sighed, a weight visibly lifting from her shoulders. "Carrie really seems taken with him. She sits on her bed staring at her phone, smiling like a fool." She paused, as if suddenly remembering something. "What about you, June? How did your applications go? Have you thought about where you're heading? You and Carrie should pick schools in the same city. That way you two can keep looking out for each other." I shook my head, my eyes drifting toward the wide, open sky beyond the apartment window. "I won't be staying in the country for college. I'm going abroad." She blinked, momentarily startled. "Abroad... Well, that's wonderful. Go see the world." 03 While Carrie was swept up in the high-society romance Chase orchestrated, my acceptance letter from an overseas university arrived in my inbox. My prospective research advisor sent a follow-up email mentioning that one of his senior graduate students was currently back in town visiting family for the summer. He shared the student's contact information and suggested I reach out to collect the preparatory reading syllabus and lab notes before the semester began. When I added him online, I was surprised by how young he appeared. His profile picture was a candid street shot: sunlight filtering through sycamore trees, holding a paper cup of coffee, a tall, lean silhouette dressed in simple clothes, looking effortlessly poised. On the afternoon we agreed to meet, I walked down to the gated entrance of my residential complex just as a low, throaty engine rumble echoed down the tree-lined street. A sleek silver sports car pulled up against the curb. The passenger door swung open, and Carrie stepped out onto the pavement. Her cheeks were dusted with a soft blush, her eyes bright with romantic warmth. Catching sight of me, her expression lit up. "June! Where are you off to?" "Just grabbing coffee with an academic contact." I looked past her, and my gaze inevitably collided with the driver behind the wheel. Chase wore a tailored, casual button-down. His posture was impeccable, jawline sharp, radiating that familiar, icy aristocratic aura that had always set him apart. His dark eyes were bottomless pits. When his gaze dragged across my face, there was not a single flicker of warmth. Only a dead, suffocating chill. In that single, fractured second, I knew: Chase had remembered, too. He had regressed just like me. I lowered my eyes, neatly severing the contact. Carrie noticed nothing. She turned back toward the driver's window, smiling. "Chase, this is June, my absolute best friend in the world." Chase finally pulled his eyes away from me, landing on Carrie. His tone shifted into an impeccably measured, polite cadence. "Right. I know." The detachment beneath the words was razor-sharp. Carrie seemed slightly embarrassed by how indifferent he sounded and gave me an apologetic glance before heading toward her apartment building. The moment Carrie disappeared past the lobby doors, the polite curve of Chase’s mouth vanished completely. He didn't pull away. Instead, he stepped out of the low car, closing the door with a muted thud, and walked slowly toward me. Three paces away, he stopped, looking down at me from his height. His stare had physical weight, cold and suffocating, pressing down against my skull. "Learned your lesson this time, June?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried an edge of dormant violence, soaked in frost. I dug my nails into the meat of my palm. The sharp bite of pain anchored me, allowing me to maintain an unbroken mask of quiet indifference. I said nothing. "You know how to hide now? You know how to keep your mouth shut?" He let out a low, humorless chuckle that carried no warmth whatsoever. I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes head-on. The rancor and disgust burning behind his pupils were so thick they threatened to spill over—identical to the look he had given me every single time he tore my life apart in the past. "I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied, my voice steady, even tinged with a mild, polite confusion. "I have somewhere to be. Excuse me." Chase watched me closely, dissecting my expression to measure how much of my innocence was real and how much was calculated. After a long beat, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so low it was meant for my ears alone: "It’s better if you don't understand. Remember who you are this time: Carrie’s friend. Nothing more." "Stay clear of her. She’s pure, and she values your friendship, but I don't tolerate snakes in my garden." "If I ever catch you playing games around her again, or whispering a single word you shouldn't..." He paused, his tone sickeningly soft, each syllable designed to draw blood. "I wouldn't mind giving you a second taste of everything you earned in our past life." He straightened up, his aristocratic poise instantly restored. It was as though the venomous threat had never taken place. Without another glance, he turned, climbed back into the low cabin of the sports car, and gunned the engine. The machine roared down the avenue and vanished around the bend. I stood on the sidewalk, the dull throb in my palm finally pulling me back to reality. My hands and feet were entirely numb. Slowly, I uncurled my fist. Four deep, white crescents were etched into the skin. 04 At a sunlit corner table inside the cafe, Simon was already waiting. Hearing the bell above the door, he stood up. His pale linen shirt accentuated a tall, clean frame. He had clear, open features, a straight nose, and a relaxed, naturally gentle curve to his mouth. "June?" He smiled, his voice unhurried, warm and resonant like polished cedar. I took the seat across from him. "Hi, Simon. Thanks for meeting me." Simon slid a thick manila folder across the polished wooden table, alongside three heavy academic paperbacks. "Professor Wright asked me to pass these along. It’s best to get through the foundational reading before the semester starts; the old man doesn't grade on a curve." "Thank you so much," I said, pulling the folder toward me. The physical weight of the paper felt grounding, real. "He's actually a great mentor, just a little..." Simon paused, his eyes crinkling with quiet humor, "...eccentric about his collections. He collects vintage artisan ceramic mugs. If you ever find yourself in his office about to get reprimanded, compliment whichever mug is on his desk. He physically won't be able to chew you out." I stared at him for a second, then burst into a genuine laugh. It was impossible to reconcile that image with the notoriously ruthless, razor-sharp professor whose papers had terrified me in the journals. "Noted. I'll keep that in mind," I said, smiling. The ice broken, the conversation flowed with an ease that surprised me. We talked about lab dynamics, research methodologies, and the upcoming syllabus. Simon possessed a brilliant, crystalline mind; he took dense, intimidating theoretical frameworks and dismantled them into elegant, accessible concepts. Eventually, the talk drifted outward—to the brilliant crimson of the autumn foliage on campus, and an unassuming little noodle shop tucked away in an alley near the library that served the best broth in the city. I looked at him across the rim of my glass, offering an honest observation: "You're not quite what I pictured." He raised an eyebrow, amused. "What did you picture?" "Someone older. Wire-rimmed spectacles, very stern, looking like an austere gentleman straight out of a period drama." Simon blinked, then let out a low, rich chuckle, his shoulders shaking slightly. "I guess my profile photo wasn't scholarly enough," he said, the warmth lingering in his eyes. "Sorry to let you down. I'm probably ten peer-reviewed publications and five brutal years on the tenure track away from being a proper gentleman." When it was time to leave, Simon insisted on driving me back. His car glided smoothly to a stop outside my complex. He stepped out first, walking around to open the passenger door for me. "Thank you for today, Simon," I said, holding the folder against my chest. "The syllabus and your survival guide are invaluable." He stood by the open door, the evening breeze ruffling his dark hair. "If you run into any issues preparing your documents, just message me anytime." "I will." From that day on, our conversations over the messaging app became a daily routine. At first, we traded thoughts strictly on academic papers—clarifying methodologies, debating theoretical interpretations. Simon’s answers were always sharp, illuminating, and deeply encouraging. Gradually, fragments of daily life began to weave between the lines. Though we didn't meet up constantly in person, the quiet, steady exchange of messages built an unspoken warmth between us—a gentle, steady anticipation that grounded my days. 05 When Carrie came over to visit, I was in the middle of a playful text debate with Simon about why the campus squirrels in the Northeast were so absurdly fat. I was lying across my bed, practically rolling over with laughter at one of his dry observations. Carrie pushed the bedroom door open right at that moment. Seeing me clutching my phone with flushed cheeks, she stopped in her tracks. "What's got you so happy?" I sat up straight, smoothing down my shirt. "Just chatting with a graduate student from my program. He's really funny." Several packed suitcases were already lined up against the wall, alongside cardboard boxes waiting for donation. Carrie’s eyes drifted toward the luggage. "You're really leaving next month, aren't you?" I nodded. "Everything's booked. My flight is in three weeks." She walked over and sat down beside me on the mattress, letting out a faint, weary sigh. I had heard through mutual acquaintances that she had been turning down Chase’s invitations for the past few days. I studied her profile. "What's wrong, Carrie?" Her brow pulled tight. "I don't think Chase actually likes me, June." "Why would you think that?" Carrie pressed her lips together, her fingers knotting in her lap. "He takes me to these lavish places, buys me things that cost more than my tuition. But..." She trailed off, her voice dipping into a troubled whisper. "Whenever we're together, his mind is miles away. When I talk about celebrity news, new movies, pop culture, he just looks bored. And when he talks about market projections and architectural ventures abroad, I have no idea what he's saying." She reached out and took my hand, a quiet, wounded look flitting across her features. "June, honestly... if it were you sitting next to him, you two would have endless things to talk about. You're brilliant. You actually understand that world." I turned my hand over, wrapping my fingers around her cool knuckles. "Don't overthink it, Carrie. He’s probably just exhausted from family business, or used to formal environments. If he didn't care about you, why would he make such a huge public declaration on graduation day? Why would he spoil you like this?" Carrie shook her head, pulling back, unwilling to dwell on it further. After a stretch of heavy silence, she seemed to remember something else. "June... how come you haven't asked me to drop off any letters lately? What happened to your pen pal?" My hands froze on the photo album I was packing. I carefully avoided her probing gaze. I kept my eyes trained on the glossy pages. "There's no need anymore." "High school's over. Some connections are meant to stay in the past." Carrie looked down at my phone resting on the nightstand, its screen lighting up with two consecutive notifications from Simon. "I suppose you're right," she said quietly, her eyes drifting back to my taped moving boxes. "Moving on is probably for the best." 06 Carrie must have taken my reassurances to heart, or perhaps she convinced herself to look past her doubts, because a few days later, she resumed going on dates with Chase. Meanwhile, Simon and I had coordinated our flight schedules so we could travel to the university together. The afternoon before our departure, an odd, prickling restlessness settled into my ribs. Then my phone buzzed with an urgent local news notification: "Active violent incident reported at the Meridian Club downtown. Suspect armed with an edged weapon, multiple injuries reported." My stomach dropped through the floor. Simon had mentioned that morning that he was meeting several former undergraduate classmates for a farewell toast at that exact venue. Before my rational mind could process the danger, I snatched a denim jacket off the back of the chair and sprinted out the door. I flagged down a taxi, urging the driver through the choked downtown traffic. When the cab finally screeched to a halt near the entrance of the Meridian Club, police tape was already flapping in the wind. A morbid crowd pressed against the barricades. Splatters of dark, wet crimson trailed down the polished stone steps. Private security guards and paramedics were barking orders over the wailing sirens, and the sound of shattered glass echoed from the inner atrium. "June!" I spun around. Carrie was running toward me from the perimeter, clutching the hem of an emerald cocktail dress, her face sheet-white. A few yards behind her, Chase was issuing clipped, cold instructions to the club manager and several security directors. His jawline was set like iron, and the cuff of his crisp white shirt was smeared with a dark, rusted stain. Seeing him take charge, I suddenly recalled that Chase’s family held a controlling stake in the property. Chase looked up, his eyes landing on me. A flash of shock rippled across his face, followed instantly by a tight, barely perceptible knit of his brow. Carrie reached me first, grabbing my wrist. Her fingers were trembling violently, freezing to the touch. "Why are you here?! It's completely chaotic inside, go home!" I parted my lips, but my gaze involuntarily bypassed her, scouring the emergency exit doors behind the cordon. Paramedics were still wheeling stretchers out, and staff members were stumbling into the daylight, coughing from fire extinguishers. "It’s over," Chase said, stepping up to us. His voice carried that familiar, commanding composure, laced with tightly wound impatience. "The attacker’s been subdued. A few staff members took defensive cuts, but no one is dead. I’m handling it. There won't be any more trouble." He stopped, his dark eyes resting on my flushed cheeks and the uneven heave of my chest. His tone softened by a fraction, almost sounding like an attempt at comfort: "There's no reason to panic." He clearly assumed I had rushed across the city in terror because I thought "he" was the one bleeding on the floor. I dropped my chin, refusing to meet his gaze, and asked in a low, strained voice: "What about the other guests inside? Are they all out?" "Has anyone seen a guy named Simon? Did he make it out?" The words fell like lead weights. Chase’s posture locked rigid. He slowly turned his head, his eyes boring into me with suffocating intensity. "Simon?" He repeated the name in an unnervingly flat tone, yet the air between us grew instantly thin, charged with dangerous pressure. "You ran all the way down here... for him?" The silence stretched, suffocating and brittle. Carrie looked back and forth between us, sensing the sudden spike in tension, and rushed to intervene: "Chase, June probably just—" Chase didn't even blink in Carrie's direction. His glare remained pinned to my face, demanding, merciless: "June. Who are you waiting for?" I stared at the revolving glass doors, picturing the horrific violence that had just played out inside—picturing Simon trapped in a corner, bleeding, caught in the crosshairs of a maniac. The constriction around my lungs tightened until it was agonizing to breathe. I looked straight up into Chase’s interrogating glare. I didn't flinch, nor did I answer his question. "I'm waiting for someone," I said, every syllable deliberate. "Once I know he's breathing, I'll leave. You and Carrie should go back to dealing with your situation." Chase’s lips tightened into a thin, bloodless line. The last shred of warmth drained from his expression, leaving only pure arctic frost. He stopped looking at me and turned his head toward Carrie, his voice devoid of any inflection: "Carrie. Who the hell is Simon?" Carrie shrank slightly under the sudden, menacing sharpness in his voice. She looked at me, hesitating, before whispering under her breath: "I think... he's the boy June is in love with." Chase’s pupils contracted violently. "In love with?" He dragged the words across his tongue like broken glass. His gaze snapped back to me, raking over my frame with an expression that bordered on deranged fury—and beneath it, the dark, familiar madness that had defined my previous life. A cold, sneering chuckle tore from his throat, sending a shiver of dread down my spine. At that exact moment, the heavy side door of the club banged open.