### **Letters From A Late Bloomer**

Meera Patel always thought her life would be peaceful—relaxed mornings, neat notebooks, good grades, and maybe the occasional late-night cookie run with friends. She wasn't the kind of girl who would suddenly admit or confess anything. At nineteen, in her second year of college, she still lived as if she didn't want to take up too much space.So when a lost notebook changed everything, even she was surprised.It happened on a windy October afternoon. Meera had entered the campus café after her chemistry lab, her backpack half-open, her hair tied in a ponytail. She ordered her daily cinnamon tea, sat in a chair, and opened her laptop—only to realize twenty minutes later that her light blue notebook was missing. The same notebook where she had written all her thoughts, little doodles, and half-finished poems that she never wanted to show anyone.Her heart was pounding. She retraced her steps: the counter, her table, the bus stop outside. Nothing.By dinnertime, she felt her notebook was gone forever. She fell asleep early, feeling strangely empty, as if she'd lost a small, peaceful part of herself.The next morning, she arrived on campus to find an envelope pinned to her locker. Her name was written in handwriting she couldn't recognize. Inside was a page from her notebook.

*Found this near the café. I thought you might need it. If you leave a note here, I'll return the rest.*There was no signature.Mira looked at the page—one of her doodles of the old oak tree behind the Science Building—and then at the envelope, perplexed. Someone had not only found her notebook, but had also taken the trouble to tear it out and return it.That afternoon, she left a carefully written thank-you note in its place.The next day, another page arrived, along with a message:*Your drawings are wonderful. I hope you don't mind me looking at them. I love poetry too.*Mira blushed so much that she had to look away from the locker door. No one had read her poems before. No one had ever praised her art so sincerely.This time she replied:*Thank you. I'm glad you found this.*A day later, another note arrived:*You can tell a lot about a person by what they write when they think no one is looking. You seem... tender.*Mira placed her hand on her chest, feeling something warm there.*Who are you?* she wrote back.For ten days, the letters kept coming—funny, encouraging, sometimes thought-provoking, sometimes teasing, but never nasty. Her mysterious correspondent returned a page each day, always with a little note.She began to wake up excited, choosing her clothes more carefully, and walking a little faster to her locker. She had no idea who it might be. All she knew was that the notes made her feel like someone was watching her, in a way she hadn't expected.One afternoon, inside the envelope, she found a small sketch. It was of a café window, taken from outside, with a girl sitting at a table, her head bent over a notebook. The girl looked suspiciously like her.A wave of nervousness and excitement swept through Meera.

*Do you draw too?* she wrote.*Sometimes,* the answer would come in the next note. *Mostly when something—or someone—inspires me.*Her stomach felt sick.Finally, on a cold Friday morning, only the cover of her notebook remained. The envelope contained another message.*If you want to meet, come to the oak tree at 4 p.m. If not, I understand.*Mira stared at the note, her hands shaking. Despite the sweetness of the letter, she couldn't ignore the nervousness inside her. What if she didn't recognize the person? What if the spark she felt on paper didn't work in real life?But by 3:50, she had already crossed the quad, clutching the letter like a lifeline.The oak tree towered over the courtyard, its leaves shining golden in the afternoon sun. Someone was already there, sitting on the bench beneath it—a tall boy with disheveled black hair and a notebook in his lap.When she heard his footsteps, she looked up.

"Mira?"

She blinked in surprise. "Liam?"Liam Chen was in her math class. Quiet. Friendly. Always sitting by the window. She had seen him a few times, mostly because he had a thoughtful expression on his face, as if he was listening more than speaking."You... found my notebook?" she managed to say.She rubbed the back of her neck shyly. "I was going to give it back immediately, but then I read that first poem about the rain on your window. It's..." He shrugged helplessly. "Beautiful. And I wanted to know the person who wrote it."Mira felt her cheeks heat up. "You didn't make fun of it.""Why would I ruin it? It was honest. That's rare." He paused. "You're different from most people here."She sat down next to him. Eventually, his heartbeat slowed and