In the refined stillness of her room, Annaëlle is lost in writing. Her hand glides with practiced delicacy over the pristine pages of her notebook, tracing verses filled with tenderness and turmoil. Every word she lays down is a whisper from her soul, a tremor of emotion she could never speak aloud.
Her eyes shimmer with a dreamy glow as she pauses, her pen hovering mid-air, her mind drifting into a sweet illusion. She imagines herself standing before Nickolas, the boy whose mere mention makes her heart race. In that moment suspended in time, she confesses everything openly, fearlessly. And he… he doesn't look away, doesn't back off. No, he listens, a faint smile playing on his lips, then slowly… so slowly… he steps closer. His breath mingles with hers, and in an irresistible pull, their lips finally meet.
A shiver runs through her. Reality crashes down on her in an instant.
— Kissing…? she murmurs, barely audible.
Her cheeks flush instantly, a warm heat blooming across her face. With trembling fingers, she brushes her lips they still bore the imprint of an imagined kiss. The mere thought sets her ablaze all over again.
— Ahhh… I'm so red! she half-whispers, stunned.
She pats her cheeks in a flurry, trying to chase away the heat, but it's no use. Her heart pounds wildly, captive to the sweet madness of first love.
A soft sigh escapes her lips as she picks up her pen again, still shaken by the vivid intensity of her imagination. Her cheeks remain flushed with emotion, but a gentle smile, steeped in quiet bliss, lights up her face. In one fluid motion, she resumes writing, letting her heart guide the ink, with no filter, no hesitation.
The words flow from her pen like a secret melody, a whisper drawn from the depths of her soul. Each line is a confession, a tremor laid gently onto the page. And when her poem reaches its final note, she pauses, gazes over the whole, then reads aloud, her eyes gleaming with emotion:
You are the sea where my soul drifts,
The soft burn in the depths of my nights,
The flash of breath, the echo of sighs,
The intoxicating silence that binds me tight.
If I could tell you without fear,
That your name dances beneath my skin,
That every beat, every tear,
Seeks you beyond what words begin.
The young girl lets the page drift gently to her chest. Closing her eyes for a moment, she could almost feel his warmth through that simple piece of paper. Her mind wanders to the memory of their first meeting when their eyes had locked for the very first time, when her heart had nearly stopped under the weight of that emotion. She still shivers at the thought.
She sighs, a mix of impatience and nervous fluttering in her belly. How could she ever tell him how she feels, without risking everything? The fear of rejection holds her back, so she chooses another path: anonymous letters. She hides her feelings behind carefully chosen words, altering her handwriting, masking her soul a little more. Each word she writes is a piece of herself offered in secret; every letter slipped into his bag or locker, a silent hope that he'll one day understand.
But for now, she stays in the shadows, a mystery she guards closely.
________________________________________
Flashback:
At the age of fourteen, she was living her last year of middle school, a time marked by cruel mockery. Her frail and slender figure became the favorite subject of malicious laughter from her classmates. The heavy stares and biting comments followed her everywhere, like an overwhelming shadow she couldn't shake off.
One spring afternoon, the sun tried to warm the atmosphere, but Annaëlle felt frozen, trapped in her own solitude. She had gone to the park alone, seeking refuge among the trees, hoping they wouldn't judge her. It was there, sitting on a bench, that the tears finally welled up in her eyes. They flowed silently, carrying with them her fears, doubts, and inner pain.
As she was consumed by her dark thoughts, a soft, reassuring male voice broke the silence.
— Why are you crying?
Annaëlle slowly raised her head, her eyes still misty with tears, to meet the gaze of a young man standing in front of her. He was rather cute, with soft but determined features, an expression that was both confident and kind. The light scent of his cologne, a mix of mint and spices, drifted from him and blended with the spring air. He was holding a bicycle with one hand, dressed in the uniform of a high school student she knew well.
A slight tremor passed through her lips as she hurriedly wiped away her tears.
— Th-that's none of your business, mind your own, she stammered, defensive.
The boy, far from being thrown off by her sharp tone, remained calm. He took a few steps toward her, his eyes shining with sincerity.
— Come on, tell me. I can see you're sad... I'm all ears, he insisted, his voice soft but full of empathy.
His insistence, devoid of judgment, unsettled the young girl. She, who thought she was invisible and rejected, had just met a boy willing to listen to her without reservation. But her inner walls remained firm, and she hesitated to reveal everything.
In a surge of inner frustration, Annaëlle thought, "What a pain he is..." But despite her defense, her eyes betrayed a vulnerability she could no longer hide. The emotion, too strong to hold back, shattered the barrier of her silence.
— No boy is interested in me... I'm always left out, she murmured in a broken voice, the words like a confession torn from the depths of her soul. She paused, her heart heavy. "In PE, some girls criticize my appearance... I get too self-conscious... they don't think I'm pretty..."
Tears then spilled over, like a river that had been held back too long. She tried to stop them, but they flowed with an overwhelming intensity, carrying away her modesty, her fears, and her doubts.
She was now sobbing, her throat tight, her face bathed in the pain of an inner turmoil she had never dared to share.
Nickolas listened silently, his eyes lost on the little children playing joyfully in the park, blissfully unaware of the pain eating away at Annaëlle. He took a deep breath, then finally turned toward her, his words wrapped in a rare softness.
— Beauty standards are kind of like an illusion, an image they impose on us that doesn't define anything real. What's beautiful isn't what you see, it's what you feel, what you project. Beauty hides in sincerity, in the soul that reveals itself. Others don't know you, and it's up to you to accept yourself, to love yourself above all, even if it's not easy. Don't let others' judgments shape the way you see yourself.
He turned fully toward her, his eyes filled with tenderness, and a genuine smile appeared on his face.
— And… you are really beautiful. Not just physically, but in the way you see the world, in your sensitivity. That's what makes you unique.
These words, simple yet full of truth, struck her straight in the heart. It was the first time a boy had said something so sincere to her, and it sparked a mix of warmth and emotion inside her.
Her eyes lit up with a new glimmer, a shy spark of hope piercing through the fog of her doubts. She stared at him, hesitating to believe in her own feelings.
— Are you sincere? she asked, her voice trembling with a fragility she didn't know how to reveal.
Nickolas looked her straight in the eyes, without hesitation, and answered with calm assurance.
— Of course…
His words were simple, but carried the depth of a silent truth. Annaëlle stood frozen for a moment, the weight of his answer needing to settle within her.
— No one's ever told me that, except my uncle…
Breathless, she felt a weight lifting off her chest. His words were gently healing an old wound she hadn't dared touch in years.
Nickolas looked at her with a light smile, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. A secret bond had just formed between them.
— Well, I'm the second person to tell you, so… am I on your list? he asked, playful but not mocking.
Surprised by the question, she nodded, a shy smile softening her features.
Seeing her response, he added, in a deeper, whispered voice:
— Because, you know, there's nothing more beautiful than someone who discovers themselves and accepts who they truly are. And, you're already on the right path. Never doubt that.
Annaëlle felt a sudden warmth rising to her cheeks. Her heart, once weighed down by sorrow, now beat wildly under the spell of a new sensation gentle and disconcerting all at once. He was different. His tone, his kindness… He was nothing like the others. And that stirred something inside her, a subtle ripple she couldn't quite explain.
Despite herself, a timid smile brushed her lips.
The high school boy, noticing her confusion, gave a small amused smile and extended a hand toward her with disarming simplicity.
— We haven't even introduced ourselves… I'm Nickolas. Nice to meet you.
Still shaken by the intensity of the moment, she lowered her eyes, then slowly looked back up at him.
— I… I'm Annaëlle, she whispered softly.
Her name, spoken aloud to him for the first time, felt strangely precious. As if, by giving it to him, she was offering a small part of herself.
Hours had passed without them even realizing it. Their voices had mingled with the laughter of children, with the rustling of leaves in the wind, and little by little, melancholy had given way to an unexpected lightness. They had talked about everything and nothing, exchanged stories, shared sincere bursts of laughter this timeless moment belonged only to them.
But as daylight began to fade, Annaëlle glanced at her watch and gently flinched.
— Oh… I have to go home, it's getting late, she said, her voice tinged with a hint of regret.
His scent, carried gently by the wind, tickled her nose. A fresh and spicy fragrance, subtly minty, evoking a feeling both comforting and intriguing. It wasn't overpowering, but more like a trace an olfactory signature that would remain etched in her memory. And in the growing twilight, that seemingly trivial detail suddenly felt deeply significant.
— We're almost there… Please stop here, she said softly.
Nickolas slowed down gently and placed a foot on the ground before dismounting. He walked beside her, holding the bike with one hand, his eyes shifting between curiosity and quiet wonder.
— Well… he murmured, caught between being impressed and surprised.
His gaze wandered over the tall, elegant buildings solemn, austere. There was something about the silence of the neighborhood, a kind of frozen majesty, that starkly contrasted with the image he had of her.
Nickolas widened his eyes, scanning the area one last time with clear admiration.
— This is where you live? Seriously? This neighborhood is… really upscale.
Really. Wow…
— Haha… yeah, you noticed.
Nickolas shook his head, still taken aback by the contrast between her and the world around her. Then, with a hint of irony mixed with curiosity, he asked:
— Tell me… couldn't your chauffeur take you to school and back?
— Because I want to be like a normal person, she explained simply. "My uncle accepted that, and now I'm used to taking the bus or a taxi, like everyone else. I feel more comfortable that way. I prefer the freedom."
Nickolas looked at her, a smirk forming as he replied with laid-back amusement:
— Hm… Nah. If I were you, I'd be riding in a luxury car every single day. Chill, comfy, no questions asked.
Annaëlle let out a soft laugh at his relaxed cynicism, then subtly pointed to the entrance of her residence.
— This is where our path ends.
Nickolas stood still for a moment, eyes wide as he took in the immense mansion before him. The white stone façade, majestic and elegant, was framed by tall, sculpted columns around an imposing front porch. Wide glass windows gave glimpses of a refined interior bathed in golden light, a warm contrast to the night's approaching chill. The estate was enclosed by a wrought-iron gate, its delicate motifs adding an aristocratic touch to the whole.
Nickolas exhaled slowly, stunned.
— WOW!! What a place!!! I've never seen a house like this, damn!!
Annaëlle smiled, slightly embarrassed by his sudden amazement. Before she could respond, a sharp female voice rang out from the entrance.
— Ah~ Annaëlle! Have you seen the time? For heaven's sake! My parents were worried sick!
Estelle, her cousin, burst through the gate with unrestrained energy, arms crossed and visibly annoyed. But her irritation vanished the moment her eyes landed on Nickolas.
She took in the boy with the magnetic presence, his striking features almost surreal. He was handsome, undeniably so, but there was something more an intangible charisma, a quiet strength that gave him a captivating presence.
Leaning casually against the gate, a flirtatious smile spread across her lips.
— I'm Estelle. And you?
Nickolas returned her smile, a spark of mischief in his gaze.
— Nickolas. Everyone calls me Nick only the close ones, of course. Nice to meet you, Estelle.
Clearly flattered, she answered with a radiant grin. The two of them locked eyes, a slightly goofy smile playing on both their lips, and an unspoken game of flirtation began unintentional, but unmistakable.
Meanwhile, Annaëlle watched the scene silently, a storm of conflicting emotions swirling within her. She saw them, as if from afar, exchanging that easy, natural glance of mutual intrigue. Too easy. Too smooth.
Her heart, already stirred by the evening, clenched again.
Annaëlle broke the silence, turning her eyes away.
— Well… I'm going in. Have a good night.
Nickolas looked at her for a moment, as if hesitating to say more, then replied with a gentle smile:
— Yeah… good night to you too.
His gaze then drifted back to Estelle, a seductive grin curling on his lips that kind of confident smile that always felt a little mysterious, a little too effortless.
Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the moment. He glanced quickly at the screen before refocusing on the two girls.
Annaëlle stopped, waiting for her cousin to catch up, her eyes fixed on the entrance of the house.
After one last glance toward the brunette, he gave her a warm smile.
— I wish you a good night, Estelle.
He slowly walked away, leaving behind a peaceful silence.
Blushing with a mix of embarrassment and delight, Estelle suddenly called out, her clear voice carrying in the cool evening air.
— Goodbye! And I hope you have a lovely evening and a good night!
Her voice echoed for a moment in the darkness before being carried off by the gentle breeze. With a mischievous smile and sparkling eyes, she turned to Annaëlle, a glint of teasing in her voice.
— He's handsome, isn't he? Did you see the way he looked at me? Do you think he likes me? I think we'd make a great couple.
She giggled lightly, as if she already pictured herself in his arms.
Annaëlle, slightly caught off guard, replied in a calm but steady voice:
— But you're in a relationship with Justine.
— Oh~ He and I… we're not really working out anymore. I'm thinking of breaking up with him. But that guy I just saw… he's a thousand times better than my soon-to-be ex! Ha!
Seriously, he and I would be perfect together. She laughed heartily, her gaze already drifting, no doubt imagining scenarios where Nickolas played a much more significant role.
As they walked toward the house, Annaëlle cast furtive glances at her cousin. A strange feeling jealousy tightened in her chest. She wanted to scream, to tell her that she had noticed that boy first, that he belonged to her, even if nothing had really been said.
It was a fleeting thought, but it unsettled her deeply.
She lowered her head, biting her lower lip, then muttered:
— Like she thinks she was the first to notice him... Pfft, ridiculous.
The words were dry, tinged with resentment, but she whispered them to give herself a little courage.
— What did you say? Estelle asked, a bit confused by her comment.
Annaëlle sighed deeply, her annoyance starting to show.
— I said I don't know... You don't even know if you're his type.
Estelle rolled her eyes, a mocking pout forming on her lips.
— You can be so pessimistic and naïve at the same time... tsss, she huffed, shaking her head, clearly done with the conversation.
Estelle spun around with a radiant smile, her gaze full of confidence.
— Hey, I'm every guy's type at school, she declared, her voice brimming with self-assurance.
She lifted her chin high, like a queen in procession, savoring her own certainty.
— Ciao bella, she added with a playful wink, then turned and walked away, proud of her own presence.
________________________________________
Estelle runs through the hallways, her voice echoing throughout the house:
— He's here! My darling is here!
Annaëlle feels her heart race. A shiver runs through her. Without thinking, she quietly slips the letter into her pocket and discreetly slips into the adjacent room. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind inside her, then hurries down the hall.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, her gaze locks. Down below, at the entrance, there he is. Nickolas Morreaud.
Time seems to stand still. Taller than in her memories, around a meter eighty-eight, he exudes an athletic build, broad shoulders, and a sculpted chest that shows through his fitted black t-shirt. His messy, mid-length brown hair enhances a raw, untamed charm. His dark jeans fit his frame perfectly, and his black sneakers complete his effortlessly stylish and incredibly attractive look.
But it's his eyes that captivate her the most. An intense, deep gaze, filled with an unreachable gleam. In his hands, a bouquet of scarlet roses, red as passion, love… or maybe danger.
In a brief moment, Estelle rushes toward him, wraps her arms around his neck, and kisses him with obvious fervor.
Annaëlle feels her heart violently constrict. A cold wave runs down her spine as her fingers tighten around the letter hidden in her pocket. Her gaze remains frozen on this unbearable scene. There, before her, her cousin passionately embraces the one who secretly makes her heart race.