Creased Confessions

Chapter 3

*Jamie's POV*

Alone in my room, the quiet is overwhelming, a stark contrast to the laughter that echoed around the quad earlier. Sitting on the edge of my bed, my head in my hands, I replay the scene again and again. The joke, my laughter, Elliot's distant and hurt expression—it all merges into a loop of regret that tightens around my chest.

Why did I laugh? The answer is as complex as it is frustrating. Fear of standing out, of being different, of not fitting in—it's no excuse, but it's the truth. My laughter was a mask, a shield against suspicion, a way to blend in, even if it meant betraying my own beliefs and, worse, hurting someone who might be facing the same fears as me.

The disconnect between my public actions and my true feelings has never been so painfully clear. I've always considered myself an ally, someone who supports love and equality, but today, I was a coward. How many times have I sat in silence, laughing along, letting things slide? Too many, and each time, I've lost a piece of myself.

Tonight, as the campus sleeps, I'm awake, haunted by the implications of my choices. Elliot's face, his disappointment, is a wake-up call. I can't continue like this, living a lie, wearing a mask. It's not only dishonest; it's exhausting.

I need to make amends, not just with Elliot but with myself. I need to start living openly, bravely. It's time to take a stand and be the person I truly am, no matter the cost. This moment of clarity, painful as it is, is the first step toward a truer, more honest life.

The morning light filters softly through my curtains as I wake up in the quiet solitude of my room. Being the RA has its perks, like having my own space, where the walls are lined with my personal escapes—engineering books and scattered sketches. The room is quiet, the silence a stark reminder that here, it's just me and my thoughts.

I sit up, stretching away the remnants of a restless night. My room is small, but it is filled with pieces of who I am. There's a single bed against one wall, a desk cluttered with my engineering textbooks, and scattered papers filled with my architectural designs. On the walls are posters of vast landscapes—places I dream of visiting, places where the complexity of my life might seem manageable.

As I get ready for the day, I glance around at these personal touches. Each item feels like a fragment of my divided self. My gaze falls on a small, hidden stack of watercolor paintings tucked beside my desk. They're scenes filled with colors and emotions I seldom let others see, a part of me that doesn't fit the straightforward, logical image I project.

I pull on my jeans and a comfortable T-shirt, the fabric soft from many washes. Standing in front of the mirror, I run a hand through my hair, trying to tame it into something presentable. The face looking back at me is familiar, yet it feels like I'm seeing it anew. Today, I need to be more than just an RA or a friend—I need to be someone who stands up for what's right.

Settling into my chair at the small desk, I push aside my engineering textbooks and papers to clear a space. The morning sun casts a warm glow over my cluttered workspace, lending a serene atmosphere to what I'm about to do. Today's task goes beyond academics or duties as an RA—it's deeply personal.

I pick up my pen, its familiar weight comforting in my hand, and pull a clean sheet of paper towards me. This letter, while anonymous, must carry my true self in every line. It needs to reach Elliot in ways our casual conversations never could.

My thoughts gather, and slowly, words begin to form on the page:

Dear Friend,

You don't know me, and for now, I must keep it that way. But I've noticed you, seen you in ways that people often overlook when life gets too loud and moments too brief. You strike me as someone who finds depth in silence and strength in kindness.

I'm reaching out because I believe in connections made through words, in the silent conversations between lines. Perhaps you feel it, too—the quiet plea for understanding, for a moment of true recognition. If not, I apologize. But if you do, may this letter be a gentle light in your day.

I admire the calm you carry, the thoughtful gaze that seems to see beyond the immediate. In a world where everyone is adrift, maybe we can find direction together.

For now, I will remain in the background, watching, waiting, and hoping to learn more about you. Until we can meet openly, take care, and know that you are seen.

Yours, A Friend Who Notices

As I finish writing, I sign it, "A Friend Who Notices"—a promise of sorts. I fold the letter carefully in half, my decision clear. I want to add something special, a piece of me. I retrieve my watercolors, quickly mixing a soft shade of red. With a gentle touch, I paint a small heart on the front of the folded letter. Inside the heart, I write Elliot's name in elegant script. It's a simple gesture, but one laden with meaning and a bit of my hidden artistry.

I stand, letter in hand, and glance around my room. The photographs and sketches encourage me, urging me on toward this small act of bravery. Stepping out, I head towards Elliot's door, my heart pounding with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The halls are quiet, echoing with the hushed sounds of early morning.

Reaching his door, I pause, taking a deep breath, before I slide the letter, with its watercolor heart, under his door. It slips quietly across the carpet, a silent messenger of my hidden feelings.

As I walk away, a sense of relief mixed with hopeful anticipation washes over me. No matter what comes next, I've taken a step towards honesty, towards revealing a part of myself that few have seen. It's a step towards understanding Elliot and, perhaps, towards understanding myself.