It started with a box.
Vashti was digging through the attic of her childhood home—old trophies, dusty helmets, and stacks of notebooks filled with childhood dreams.
She reached the bottom and found it: a tiny purple box labeled in messy handwriting—"For Shabd (never gave this)".
Curious, she opened it.
Inside was a folded letter, yellowed at the edges. The handwriting was unmistakably hers—shaky, dramatic, and fierce. Dated: Grade 6. Age 12.
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Dear Shabd,
I know you'll never read this. You don't even see me.
You're in 11th grade. You walk like the world is yours, and talk like your voice belongs in books.
But I notice everything.
I know you like F1 too. I know you read medical books during lunch like a weirdo genius. I even know that your eyes get sad when no one's watching.
And me? I'm loud. Angry. Always in trouble.
But I'd give anything—everything—just for you to smile at me once.
Even if this love stays one-sided, I'll still love you. Because dreams don't need permission. They just… burn inside.
— Vashti
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Reading it made her hands tremble.
That night, she quietly slipped the letter onto Shabd's desk.
No words.
Just let him read it.
He found it an hour later.
And for the first time in years… he cried.
When he walked into the bedroom, Vashti was on the couch, watching a race replay.
He didn't speak. Just knelt down in front of her.
"You've loved me since you were twelve?"
She nodded. "Always."
"I don't deserve that kind of love."
"No," she whispered. "You earned it the moment you let me love you back."
He took her hand gently. "I wish I could go back and see you then. Maybe I wouldn't have wasted so much time."
She smiled. "Maybe. But then, we wouldn't have this story."
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