Author's Note: Sooooo, I was talking (screaming) with my good friend Missingcrowdsof1000s the other day about how RIDICULOUS it is that no one involved with the show has talked about Bruno's Letter? And how ridiculous it is that the show itself didn't talk about it?

AND THEN like a day later, we get an interview with the beautiful and amazing Iman, where she tells us it was a FREAKING DELETED SCENE—and that they'll likely deal with it in Season 2, if there is indeed a Season 2.

Phew. So many emotions.

Long story short, we decided that I should write a fic that could be separate from 1000's series but that could also lead into the 9th story, where Kamala has read the letter and confronts Bruno about it.

Kamala shifts on the cold metal of the streetlamp she's sitting on. She's always loved heights, choosing to climb on top of monkey bars instead of across them when she was a kid and discovering her special roof access at an early enough age to nearly give Muneeba a heart attack. Now, with her newfound grasp of her Hard Light abilities, she can reach any height she wants.

She likes streetlamp best.

Kamala really, really needs to be alone right now. So alone that the roof outside of her window, still within earshot of her parents, isn't solitary enough. So, when she'd set off, she picked a burnt-out street lamp overlooking a quiet family park, and took a seat.

And now she sits, breathing in the air of the city and trying not to let herself slip into a panic. She should be calm; the city has been saved, Kamran is safe and off the radar, her family is supporting her occasional superheroing and everything is good and right and as it should be.

Except.

Except, except, except.

Except today she'd lost a sheet of homework in her locker and had reached behind an emergency sweatshirt and there, on the metal bottom, was an envelope. She hadn't recognized the handwriting spelling her name across the front (who recognizes handwriting these days?), but she did recognize the envelope itself.

Bruno's Nonna still insists on sending Muneeba thank you cards after every large contribution of food. Every time, she uses the same bright, light blue envelopes. Kamala has seen them scattered across her counter for years, and so when she'd seen the blue paper in her locker she'd known immediately who it was from.

The knowledge doesn't help, really. In fact, it makes it all the more stressful. If the letter was from Nakia, Kamala already would have opened it. It would probably be some sort of invitation to a Mosque event or a cute sloth card that Nakia saw and thought Kamala would like. But Bruno slipping an envelope into her locker is weird and different and…

Scary.

And exciting?

Kamala, perched on her streetlamp, rubs her thumb against the blue paper. She's had the letter now for two whole days and hasn't made direct eye-contact with Bruno the entire time. She knows she needs to just read it already, deal with all of it, but she's been procrastinating like she procrastinates everything.

The thing is, Kamala already knows what's inside. There's only one thing it can be.

She's still not ready to prove herself right. But Bruno is leaving for college in four days, and if she lets him slip away without ever opening what is likely his heart poured out on paper to her, she'll probably never forgive herself. So she's here, trying to calm her skittering heart and work up the courage to at least open the envelope flap.

"Come on, Sloth Baby," Kamala mutters, glaring at herself as best she can. "It's just a letter. Just read it and go from there."

She grits her teeth and tears open the paper. As predicted, inside is a folded piece of lined paper, words scrawled across both sides of the page in dark green ink. There are blots and scribbles, everything about the letter is slapdash, but Kamala has a moment of fondness as she feels she gets a brief peek into Bruno's mind. Messy, jumbled, a process of trial and error. Sweet. Thoughtful. Beautiful.

Kamala takes a deep breath, hooking her ankles together. She has just enough light to see the words Bruno has written her, and she starts to read.

Dear Kamala,

Here's the deal: I know you're going to be mad at me. I just wanted to lay that out there. I am fully aware that you are going to read this and be so furious that you drive 43 hours to Caltech.

And maybe that's what I want? (well, maybe not the driving, because I do actually care about your safety.) Because I'll be gone by the time you read this, I'll definitely be gone. No offense, KK, but your locker is a mess and it's YOU so chances are, you're not going to be poking around the bottom until you go to clean everything out, which is an urge that usually hits you around April. See, I do pay attention.

I actually pay a lot of attention. More attention than I should. And maybe it's creepy? Maybe I should stop noticing when you get a new graphic t-shirt or haven't had a full nights sleep or when you've gotten into a fight with your mom. Maybe I should stop noticing that you only eat almonds if they're the spicy kind and wear the same hair ties around your wrist every day. Maybe I should stop noticing the way your eyes light up in class when you are very much not listening to the lecture, and how you bounce on your toes in the hallways when you need a brain-break.

But I can't. No matter how many times I've tried to distance my cognitive pathways from you and everything you are, I just can't. It's ridiculous and illogical. It quite literally keeps me up at night.

So I guess this is an attempt to just… get it all out? Because I'm leaving. I'm starting what I suppose is a new life, just like you recently started your new life. And as much as I want to be a part of that life, and for you to be a part of mine, I just feel like something needs to give. This isn't the smooth sailing it used to be. Everything's gotten choppy, at least on my end of the boat, and now I'm talking in metaphors and we both know that's never a good idea.

Maybe instead of beating around the bush like I always do, I should just come out and say it. Well, write it. I thought writing it would be easier (yes, I took the cowards path. You're the brave one in this duo), but I'm quickly finding out that I'm stalling just as much via pen as via verbal communication.

Okay. Here it goes.

Kamala Khan, I have been in love with you since the first moment I laid eyes on you. We were six years old, you were wearing pigtails and a Captain Marvel T-shirt, you smiled at me across the classroom and gave me this little jumpy wave and I felt something I'd never felt before and the feeling just didn't stop. No matter how many crushes on other guys you had, no matter how many weeks we drifted apart and fell back together, no matter how many times I got knocked into the friend zone, I have always known that I am in love with you.

So here we are. I'm gone, you've found a new version of yourself, the version I truly do believe you were meant to be. Now I've dropped this bomb on you and I'm letting you decide: Do you want to defuse it or let it explode?

Metaphors again. I should probably call it quits while I still can.

All my love, from every piece of me to every piece of you,

Bruno

Kamala doesn't expect to cry. It's a letter for goodness sakes, not some animal movie where said animal dies at the end, or a tragic romance where the boy and girl are kept apart by an invisible, but heart-rending, barrier.

Except it kind of is exactly like that.

Not the animal movie. The tragic romance.

Kamala wipes her eyes on the back of her wrist, holding the letter carefully so she doesn't crumple it even a little bit. This slip of paper needs to stay pristine and perfect, because it feels like Bruno has carved out a piece of his metaphorical heart and tucked it into a small blue envelope. She takes a steadying breath, staring out into the flickering night.

What is she supposed to do with this? This, as Bruno himself said, bomb? Is she crying because she's crushed, certain that this letter will ruin every beautiful thing they have between them? Is she crying because she's going to have to confront him about it someday, someday soon, and tell him he's alone in feeling this way?

Or is it none of that?

Instead, is she crying because this letter pulls something inside her so tight it feels like she can barely draw air into her lungs? Something so deep, so tucked away, so stomped down, that it's taken nearly ten years to actually make itself known?

Bruno loves her. Bruno Carrelli, who's been with her through every step and stage of her life, supporting her, caring about her, never judging or ignoring—he loves her.

No, she knew that. She's always known that Bruno loves her, it's beyond obvious even in just the way his eyes get when he's looking at her, But he's in love with her. There's something special about that, something elevated.

Kamala lets out another slow breath, wipes her eyes one more time, and carefully folds the letter. Her legs swing loose over the edge of the street light and the cool night air ruffles her hair and her scarf.

She needs a moment to get her thoughts in order, to draw in all the loose threads and weave them into something more cohesive and tangible. After pouring so much of his usually pretty ineloquent self into that very eloquent letter, Bruno deserves that much.

But then…

Then she has a certain Caltech-bound best-friend-and-more to pay a visit to.

Author's Note: And you all have a certain 9th story in a series entitled What Is This to go read ;)

(sorry if this story was kind of boring. It was almost entirely dramatic introspection and I fully understand that can be kind of a drag haha)