It was pure surprise, seeing her handwriting on the small piece of paper instead of his. It had the scent of the cherry blossoms and the earth in which it was previously buried; it looked like it has been in here for some time. Clutching the letter in his hand, he produced from his pocket another one, this time grinning as he looked forward to reading the heap of letters beneath the other hole he had dug.
He wasn't really the type for letters and stuff like that. He preferred expressing himself through actions, through gestures, through his music which would make girls swoon and throw themselves at him.
But she wasn't like any of them. In the short space of time that he knew her, he would notice her eyes looking far ahead, into the sky, spacing out. She would close her eyes, let the wind play with her hair if there was any; and if there were music, she would sing. He was one of the people who provided her the melodies and the songs. Ever since he was captivated by her voice that fateful night, he always wanted to hear her, singing or not. He loved the brightness of her laugh, that glint whenever she has an idea, that joy when she enjoys whatever she's doing.
There were times, and many of them, that she would just keep herself quiet, get a pen and write something on her black binder. Whenever she does this, he can't help but wonder what was in it. That secretive manner in which she wrote mystified him.
He was always fascinated with the songs she wrote, whenever she would sing tunes that were new to him, but somehow familiar; whenever she would sing lyrics that resonate his own thoughts. Her songs held him captive, but he never showed it; he was just watching her from a distance, only talking with her about music and academics and business.
That was when he started writing. He found that he can be honest whenever his pen touches the paper, he can drop the easy smile and poker-faced attitude whenever his words swirl across the surface. He was free, like he was whenever he touches his guitar and let his passion drive the music.
And whenever he finishes writing something, he'd go to his favorite tree which shares the same name as her, the one in the middle of the park, where he'd bury the letters beneath the soil. He made sure to remember one of the tree's roots as a mark near the hole he made.
But tonight, as he proceeded to bury his recent letter, he happened to dig at the wrong side of the root. And he chanced upon her treasure.
Now I know, Sakura. But I won't let you know just yet. He smiled at himself as he opened his letter.
