"WHAT THE HELL are you doing here?!"

I wasn't sure if turning on the lights was a wise decision. The good thing was that I could finally see who was in my room. The bad thing was I could finally see what he'd done to my room.

In front of my window was a mess. Clothes were sprawled in every direction, notebooks were toppled over them, the basket had fallen to the ground and the letters were —

Oh my God.

THE LETTERS WERE EVERYWHERE.

"Oh God," I breathed in, rushing for the letters where they were laying out in the open. NO NO NO. What if he saw them? Oh God, what if he read them?

"Woods?" Oliver asked, confusion on the edge of his tone. "Ah, sorry about that. You should've turned the — "

"What are you doing here?"

He flinched at my snappy voice. I realised it's become a natural reaction from him. "I — I wanted to check how you were doing. You looked pretty weird back there, and with the whole leaving and all. . . let's just say that you made quite an exit."

"And you couldn't have knocked on the front door like a normal person?" I barked, still shoving the letters into the basket and getting onto the shirts and notebooks. "Or at least wait for me to come out?"

"Hey, I thought you were sleeping or something! How should I know? Plus, you gotta admit, this way is much faster than going all the way from the front — "

"Get out."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Are you deaf? Get out! My mother could be here any minute!"

"They're still at the dinner, relax," he said impatiently. "And they won't — "

"HONEY!" A familiar voice called from downstairs. "Emily, are you alright?"

Shoot me.

Oliver's eyes widened as he recognised the voice of my mother. He was about to say something before I eagerly interrupted, "Go!"

With a reluctant nod, he headed over to the window. I kept my eyes on him the whole way through, shooting daggers at those ridiculously charming green eyes whenever he glanced behind.

Wait, what? Charming?

"But seriously," he said, hitching a leg on the ledge. "It's better to keep the lights — "

"OLIVER, GO!"

I dare say it looked like he almost slipped, but nevertheless he made it to his window and closed it shut.

I raked a hand through my hair. That was too close. What if I had never heard the noise, and he had the thought of reading the letters? I would be doomed. My life would be a mess.

I decided to check my letters again to see if one of them fell or something. I needed to make sure all of them were intact and that the amount was correct. I know, I know — you're probably laughing at me right now. Why would I care about a bunch of letters that I made, anyway?

1, 2, 3, 4, 5. . .

. . .15.

Oh, thank God. Every one of them was —

Wait a minute. That was only fifteen.

There was suppose to be twenty.

No. No way.

There was no way he took them.

He couldn't have.

________

J U L Y  1 8 ,  2 0 1 0

It's confirmed. That Grant took five of my letters. HELP ME.

Almost two weeks have passed and I'm still ignoring him. At first, I wasn't sure if he took my letters. It could've been blown away that night, or it was simply just hiding in my room. 

But optimism has never been a good look on me.

One morning, he came up to my front door, my letters in his hand. And before he could utter a word, I slammed the door right in front of his face.

I don't know if he knows yet, because I don't know which letters he took. He's sent less and less messages after I all but ignored him. I guess, maybe, he was finally accepting that I hated him and his guts. That is, until I received a brand new text an hour ago.

"You want the letters back? Fine. You can have it. But only if we talk."

Should I? Wouldn't be wiser to just hope that he'll forget about it? I don't know. What should I do? What can I do?

________

"Where are my damn letters?"

"Chill down, grasshopper," Oliver said with a little smile. "Sit down and we'll talk."

I guess you could probably wonder where we were meeting up. Yeah, in our separate rooms. I was sitting by the window ledge, and he was sitting on his, casually throwing a baseball with his baseball glove.

I sighed. "This is how we're going to do this. You give back what's mine, and I'll tell you everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything," I lied.

"Okay." He straightened up. "But we do this my way. So, ladies first. What's up with all these letters, huh? Why do you bother writing so much when you're not going to send any of them?"

"I didn't say I didn't," I replied as I gritted my teeth.

He waited for me to elaborate more. I didn't.

The truth? Those were just copies. And you're wondering — why the hell would I make copies of letters I already sent? Well, I figured that when I decided to let it all out, when I decided tot ell someone else. . . the letters could do the talking for me. Maybe it could make them understand why I did what I did.

But of course I wasn't going to say that.

"So why — "

"It's personal," I cut him off.

"Everything's personal with you."

Dead silence.

"Fine. Next question," he huffed. "What is it all about? I mean, you're going through all these. . . spasms and twitching, and I bet that was what last dinner was all about, right?"

I slowly nodded.

"Do you have some kind of muscle condition or disease or. . . ?"

That's just the tip of the iceberg. "You seriously don't know?"

He shook his head, and I almost wanted to laugh if this situation wasn't serious. I knew something Oliver Grant didn't; someone who acted like he knew everything. I could use it to my advantage.

"What were the entries?" I asked, holding back my smug smile.

He frowned, then fumbled with the letters. "March 4th and 18th, May 11th, and June 7th."

Oh, phew. So far, those were all safe letters. They didn't specifically say which disease I had. It was a miracle he didn't pick up the —

"Oh wait, there's February 13th, too," he added casually, oblivious to my heart beating fast. "I can't believe I didn't notice that. Give me a minute."

You have got to be kidding me.

That was my first letter. Which means that I — I wrote —

"No way," he whispered.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how a living soul other than Mom and Dr. Grey, knew about my "secret." His eyes widened, his posture became rigid, and he faced me with a blank expression.

He knew.

"You have ALS," he whispered in horror. 

Yeap. There goes the bomb.

Boom. Okay, that was the big secret. 

What do you guys think about it? Did you expect it? Did you have a close guess? Or was it, well... a bomb?