“Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”

•°•°•°•°•

To the one from the star,

I'd started receiving the notes -- or should I call them letters? -- more frequently. Every other morning, I would find a sweet scented envelope carefully resting in my locker, sitting with my books in a neat pile. If not in the morning, then surely by the evening I would find it there in its usual spot.

I had started collecting them instead of throwing them away. I don't remember where did I tug away the first one, and sometimes I actually felt the guilt nagging me when I thought about the very first note. But in the end, I tried rectifying my actions. I didn't throw them away anymore. Instead, I stored them carefully within the front pocket of my JanSport. I started preserving them.

I'd always wanted to ask you about these letters: Why would you write these notes to me when we could actually talk about it vis-à-vis? But of course, I never did. I just assumed that maybe you couldn't speak your mind like I couldn't. Maybe that was the reason why you started writing those letters, like I am doing now -- filling these blank pages with words that I wished I'd shared with you before you'd walked away.

I assumed that these notes were our little secret. I assumed we had silently made a pact never to mention it in our conversations.

I'd assumed a lot of things. I see that now.

That day -- it was a Wednesday if I recall clearly -- I'd received a blue envelope. Though it wasn't in it's usual spot in my locker. In fact my locker was devoid of the daily notes when I'd first arrived and scanned through my contents in there. I would be lying if I said my heart didn't ricochet within my ribs. I would be lying if I said my stomach didn't drop, so low that it almost felt like gravity was working its magic twofold. I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed.

But when I plodded up the steps to my class, a little weary and a little anxious for no apparent reason, I saw the blue envelope sitting on my table. Neatly folded and sprayed with an utterly sweet scent. I reached for it, almost wildly tore open the seal, and read the message like I was devouring my favourite kind of bittersweet chocolate tart.

I'd looked around. Probably searching for you. I'd half expected you to pop in your head through the window and exclaim, “I climbed up the pipe just to make sure you see my face when you read that letter. Better be thankful.” And then you'd wink.

But of course those were fantasies. Merely imaginations. I just read the letter and smiled to myself, a feeling so deep and craving that it almost seemed as though a whole sky had lit up with a thousand lanterns for my sake. They sang melodies that inked the pages of these letters, tearing at my heartstrings with each syllable.

I hadn't acknowledged it yet, but I realised I loved receiving these notes. If only I could hear you actually recite these words to me.

Soon the bell rang, signalling the beginning of our class. Our English  professor, Mrs Murray, wasn't exactly the considerate kind. Nor was she an evil witch straight out of a fantasy book with long canines and sharp talons. She wasn't scary, but definitely not approachable either.

So that day, when she paired me up with this boy, who usually remained in the shadows like I did, for our group assignment, I decided I wanted to try and persuade her to allow me to work on this project on my own. As long as it was a two-people affair, I knew I'd be a failure.

But before I could even approach her, Noah, my partner came around to sit beside me and decided to strike up a conversation -- though I'm sure anybody would've been able to feel the awkward tension floating in the air. I was still a newbie when it came down to socialising.

“So can we meet later next week? Till then we could do our own research on the topics, perhaps?”

I hadn't listened to half of what he'd said. I was too busy freaking out. “Uh, sure.”

Have you heard of the butterfly effect? The smallest flap of their wings that could result in a bigger difference somewhere else. It's a very sensitive dependence.

My answer to Noah was exactly so. Those letters I'd been receiving were exactly so. A star coming down to help me witness a miracle was exactly so. 

Everything was changing. Swiftly. Slowly. And then again, steadily.

It was getting hard for me to cope.

•°•°•°•°•

A/N

Hello, hello! Yes, another update. 👀 This time, the characters were just yelling inside my head so I had to put them down on paper asap.

But yeeee that absolutely gorgeous poem is by the amazingly talented Chef_Adler! Like, can we please take a moment to appreciate the beauty of that poem. 😭 I love it so much, thank you! ❤ Check out her book A STAR'S FALL on her profile! READ IT READ IT READ IT! You'll thank me later. 😍😭

Also, thank YOU so much for sticking with me thus far! Really appreciate all the support. ❤

~Jenna