Dear Peter,

I tried to fight it forever. I tried to not notice you or not care. Gen was already in love you, so I tried to even let you kiss me, but you insisted. In front of her.

I remember seeing her face the moment you kissed me. When that bottle made its fateful land on you, she was devastated. In that moment, I was a terrible friend. I could only think, please choose me in the end. Please choose me.

You didn't choose me. I've been thinking of that kiss over and over. I've officially fallen hard. I notice everything now. From the golden specks in your eyes to the way you call everyone by name. You make people feel special, Peter. You make me feel special.

I can't think of anything else anymore. It's all you all the time. Hopefully one day I'll be the only thing on your mind.

Love,

Lara Jean Covey

I re-read the letter as I tucked it behind a piece of glass. This would be the perfect gift. We were together one month, for real this time. Nothing could go wrong.

I quickly put the framed letter in a decadent gift bag. Fluffing the tissue paper just right, I couldn't wait for him to get here. He had a whole date planned and I had no idea what he could have done. The diner is my first guess. We had our first real talk the night after the party. That's where I think I really fell for him through the whole fake-dating process.

My second guess is a movie. We had consistent movie nights through our whole "relationship" and we had kept them up for the whole month. Most of the time Kitty would join. As much as I love having my sister love my boyfriend, I am so excited for it to just be Peter and me.

Continuing to fuss with the tissue paper, I hear my name being shouted from downstairs. Kitty yells in her sing-song-y way, "Lara Jean…"

Peter must be here. I scoop up the bag, straighten my skirt, and start for the door. Butterflies the size of pterodactyls fill my stomach. Every time I see that boy he makes my heart skip a beat. To my surprise it is not Peter at the door. An attractive, statuesque boy in a suit, stands in my doorway. My jaw hangs as we connect eyes.

They are deep blue, similar to an ocean, and vaguely familiar. In his hands he holds the missing piece. My letter. John Ambrose McClaren. It's been years since I've seen him. I just stare. He half smiles as if about to speak, but then a hand lands on his shoulder. In a full tux, there is Peter. A similar rush comes flooding back. As if I'm back on the track, looking at Peter's letter clutched in his hands. I'm about to go down. I lock eyes with Peter, hoping he recognizes the symptoms.

Feeling weightless, both boys fuzz out as I faint.