In the quietest corner of the old campus library, Anna found a note tucked inside a worn poetry book.
It read: If you’re reading this, I hope you believe in fate. Meet me here next Friday, same time.
She laughed softly, heart curious. Just a prank? A game? But part of her wanted to believe.
So she returned.
And he was there.
Dark hair, glasses, a shy smile. “You found it,” he said.
“I wasn’t sure if I should come.”
He scratched his neck. “I wasn’t sure anyone would.”
They talked for hours. About books, music, little things that suddenly mattered.
Each week, a new note. A new meeting.
By the fifth Friday, she found no note. Just a rose. And beside it, him—holding a ring-shaped bookmark.
“Want to write our own story?”
Her answer was a smile—and the start of their next chapter.
