Chelsea sits up on the bed, scanning the piece of paper that had been slipped into her backpack just a few hours earlier. She squints her eyes as she reads and rereads it over and over.
Chelsea
I know you may not bother with me if you ever found out who I was, but the truth is, I really love you. I always have, and I always will.
That's all it says, but the words hit Chelsea's nerves as if a big red target had been painted on them. Who would write such a short piece? Who does she know that would think she doesn't reciprocate these feelings? These questions fly around her head, but the one question that stands out is, who does she know that always, always, always uses a gray Day-Glo pen to write? Chelsea racks her brain, trying to search for an answer. Forget what kind of answer, anything will do. Just as long as they answer at least one of her questions. Sighing, Chelsea is on the border of giving up as she twirls a strand of strawberry-blonde hair with her finger.
"Who could it be..." she muses to herself as she places the paper flat on her chest, as if trying to bring it closer to her heart, as if her heart holds the answers she's looking for. How can she answer this question, when she only has two hints to work on? She doesn't remember ever getting a letter from any inhabitants of the island, so examining the hand-writing of the document is out. But, she could try, right? Chelsea sits up and examines the paper again. The handwriting on it is small and delicate, but at the same time looks like the person who wrote it was in a rush. The handwriting looks like it tries to be as unnoticeable as possible, as if it's trying to shrink away from the rest of the world. Compared to Chelsea's own handwriting, she feels like she could break the delicate strings of words on the paper just by letting it flutter to the ground while her own handwriting makes her feel that it would break a priceless glass fixture if it got any more bouncy. The color of the ink just adds to that illusion, as if the handwriting wants to fade into darkness, as if it were but a ghost.
She has it. She remembers learning, back in school, that the handwriting of a certain person can tell you a lot about their personality. So she thinks; who does she know doesn't like talking to people, who is a person that would be classified as what she called a lone wolf? Who is shy enough that they wouldn't actually come up to her to confess their feelings? Chelsea's mind comes up short, and she lies down and sighs again. She lies there for a few moments until remembering that she has work to do, work that could greatly affect the island's economy if she didn't do it. Sighing, Chelsea picks herself up off her bed and walks to the closet, rummaging through it to find her red rubber boots.
Outside of Chelsea's house, a sigh escapes him as he drags his back down the wall and sits down on the ground, bringing his knees to his chest. Didn't that idiot get it yet? It was him, the one that didn't talk to anyone. The one that always tells her to stay away from him, because he was afraid that he would just break her heart if he ever got together with her. Him, the one that thought that he would be a lot better off without any friends because he thought that in the end, the both of them would just end up being hurt. Him, the one that always stayed in the shadows and put up walls around himself, walls that he made sure no-one would be able to penetrate. But that has already happened; this girl has done it, by some amazing feat.
Shaking his head, the young man stands up and adjusts his appearance so that the girl on the inside of the house can't see any part of him through the window. He wants to remain invisible to the world, still afraid that if he made friends with it, it would just come crashing down around him. Slowly, he walks off Chelsea's farm before she comes out of her house, wondering if she would ever guess his identity and if she would ever feel the same way for him as he does for her.